The New Frontier

The morning dawned clear and bright over Washington, D.C., and the light breeze that wafted across the mall towards the Chinese War Memorial barely upset the fine dusting of new snow that had fallen the night before. All around the capital, crews of workmen were humming like worker bees, busily making preparations for the spectacle to come this midwinter's day.

Here, a construction gang hammered away at a grandstand in front of the capital building. Over there, a groundskeeping crew tidied up the area in front of the reflecting pool, setting trashcans up, taping off restricted areas, leaving a path for the horses and limousines and pomp and pageantry that would soon be rolling down Pennsylvania Avenue towards the White House in triumph. For this morning of January 21, 2016, America would be celebrating that quadrennial leap of faith known as a presidential inauguration, in this case for its 46th president.

Glory! Rapture! It was being touted as a victory for the common people. Jack Waverly had sprung from small-town, grassroots America to claim, by a landslide, the highest office in the land. His populist Iowa roots and homespun, help-the-little-guy message seemed to be just what the public wanted in this time of rapid and sometimes frightening corporate and technological triumphs.

Jack Waverly had run on a pledge to reign in the excesses of previous fatcat administrations that had catered only to the rich and to instead focus on the average American. He had barnstormed the country in a whistle-stop, lunchpail, roll-up-your-shirtsleeves campaign, a Harry Truman for the internet age, giving 'em hell at every diner and factory lunchroom all across the heartland. "We're with ya, Jackie boy!" "We love you, Jack!" "All the way with Waverly!" small town America had swooned. And the rest of the country had followed, all the way to the White House, brass bands blaring. His run for the prize had been a yearlong nostalgia parade down Disneyland's Main Street, USA.

So on this bright January morning, Johnathon Marion (Jack) Waverly, Jr., son of a plumber, newly elected chief executive, commander in chief, head honcho of the free world, the President of the United States of America, was anticipating a wild celebration of his monumental victory, a victory that he had called "the last triumph over despair."

He was not to be disappointed. Jubilant crowds lined the streets of his motorcade, cheering lustily for "Hardhat Jack," as the press had dubbed him during the primaries. His inaugural address, given to a crowd of over 300,000 and a billion more on the internet, was a masterstroke of hope and glory. Standing at the same spot where Lincoln had promised "malice towards none, charity for all," where FDR had stood with ten pounds of steel braces strapped to his legs and announced his war on fear, where John Kennedy had proclaimed the torch had been passed, he suddenly felt the weight of the moment, the history of it all. President of the United States! He rolled the phrase around and around silently in his mind, caressing it. And just at that moment, he promised himself to be the best president the country had ever seen. The people had spoken, and he would not let the people down.

His inaugural address ended with a tumult of flags and confetti and horns and balloons and cheers and tears. At a prearranged moment a hundred doves were released into the air and fluttered and turned to silver in the morning sun as they wafted across the Potomac into Virginia. The crowd swooned as one. Good ole Hardhat Jack, he's going to be one hell of a president, by God!

Waverly, humbled by the accolades and the standing ovation that closed his speech, made his way from the podium and disappeared behind it into his coterie of aides. R. Harold Krews, his chief of staff, an unctuous, no-nonsense pitbull of a man, directed him towards a waiting limousine. A phalanx of secret service agents surrounded him and the new first lady as they got into the automobile.

"Watch your head, Mr. President," one of the agents said to Waverly as he ducked into the sleek black car.

Waverly did his best to suppress a chuckle and smiled at his wife. "Guess I'm gonna have to get used to that particular appellation, eh?"

"You're still Jack to me, mister," his wife joked, grabbing his hand and cradling it in one of her white gloved ones. "And don't you forget it. The country may be in love with you, but you're not too big to take out the White House garbage."

"Garbage?" Waverly said, raising eyebrows. "Don't we have a secret service detail to do that?" They both laughed, a hearty, giddy, winner's laugh.

Chief of staff Krews, sitting in the jump seat facing the first couple, was oblivious to this celebratory tete-a-tete. It was not his style. His first job was to make sure the transition from the previous administration of President Richard Steele to the new one went as smoothly as possible. This inaugural day was only the start.

Krews stared off into space, his mind racing over a slew of details that remained to be taken care of this important and symbolic first day in office. It was turning into a logistical nightmare: six inaugural balls, the first of which was already getting underway this very minute; political bigwigs and congressmen and assorted world leaders and their families to schmooze with; moving into the White House. A dozen things could and probably would go wrong.

Suddenly Krews cocked his head and listened intently to some staticy, disembodied instructions coming in on his wireless earpiece. He jerkily motioned to the secret service driver up front. "Take us to the White House, driver, immediately." He looked at the president, his face a clenched fist of concern. "Change of plans, Jack."

"What are you talking about? We're going to the inaugural ball now, right?"

"Urgent message from the joint chiefs, Mr. President. We have a situation that calls for your immediate attention."

"What is it?"

Krews hesitated, glancing almost imperceptibly at Darlene Wentworth Waverly. The new first lady sat there prim and pristine in her pillbox hat and smart designer dress, looking questioningly at Krews. It was an open secret that she loathed the president's right hand man.

The new president picked up on Krews's trepidation almost instantly. "Come on Harry, she knows everything I know. It's always been that way, ever since I was a goddam alderman in Iowa City, and it's not going to change now."

Krews lowered his glance for a moment. He hesitated only for a moment before he spoke in measured tones. "We have to go to the War Room, straight away. The Joint Chiefs are waiting." He lowered his voice. "They won't give me any details, but it appears to be a situation, Mr. President. Priority One."

Waverly searched the deadpanned face of his chief of staff for signs of levity. There were none. Krews had no sense of humor that any normal human being could discern. He never made light of anything. Waverly frowned, and closed his hand tightly around his wife's. Looking at her, he sighed. "Guess the rubber chicken and martinis will have to wait. Someone can't wait to test my resolve, it would seem." He looked out the window of the limousine at the passing cherry blossom trees, the branches bare in winter's grip like upraised bony fingers. They seemed to Waverly to be pointing towards heaven, asking for something.

"Has President Steele been informed," he said, thinking out loud.

Krews kept staring out the car window. "The former President and Mrs. Steele left Washington by helicopter right after your speech. I should think they're somewhere over Maryland right now, heading for New York." He looked straight at Waverly. "You're in charge now, Jack."

Indeed. The long black car knifed through the crisp morning air, moving with a purpose. Instead of turning toward the midtown convention center, where a huge, gala inaugural party was already in full swing, it sped up Pennsylvania Avenue and turned into the driveway of the White House. Credentials were flashed and the car disappeared into a subterranean garage deep in the bowels of the stately residence.

For years there has been a highly secret, heavily secured area in a sub-basement thirty feet below the White House. Officially called the "Commander in Chief's National Security Operations and Information Center," it has been known since the time of Eisenhower, who ordered its construction 1954, simply as the "War Room." It was the place in which the Cuban Missile Crisis played out during those 13 fateful October days in 1962. John Kennedy had initially installed the communications devices that came to be known as the "Hot line," and through the years this room had been upgraded with the latest computers and sophisticated satellite intelligence gathering equipment. The Joint Chiefs regularly met here to assess world security threats. If anything anywhere on earth moved to threaten the security of the United States or any of its allies, the men and women who staffed this room instantly knew of it.

Waverly walked in.

Although he had heard of this place, he had never been here before this moment. He had been briefed, as all presidents-elect are, on its function and existence. But he hadn't expected to be needed down here so soon in his presidency. The world had its trouble spots, of course, as it always had, but the last few years international relations had been disarmingly quiet. This quiet could well be a prelude to an attack: the change in administrations, the transition period between governments, could conceivably be viewed as an opportune moment for a surprise military incident. It made sense. But from whom?

All over the room lights blinked, machines hummed, binary codes and gigabytes of digital information crackled through cyberspace. Large banks of computers conversed with each other in that secret language that only machines know, spitting forth tactical updates at a dizzying rate. A huge viewing screen on one wall showed a world map, cordoned off into political zones, highlighted with dots of light.

This room had power. The decisions that could be made here by a mere handful of beribboned white-haired men had the capability of annihilating tens of millions of people. Poof! Gone! Vaporized, like so much dust, leaving not even memories.

As Waverly quickly surveyed the room and its hum of activity, he was not the only one who was aware that he had only officially been commander in chief of the armed forces of the United States for somewhere on the order of 90 minutes. It was written all over the men's faces as they surveyed the new president.

"Good afternoon, Mr. President. Sorry to have to break into your festivities, but we felt this couldn't wait." General Hadley Sexton, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, greeted Waverly with a stiff and stagy formal salute.

"No problem, General. Better to be safe than sorry. What have you got?"

Sexton opened up a manila folder and read from some papers. "As you are aware, Mr. President, for the past few months our intelligence operatives have been keeping a close watch on certain terrorist groups who have been causing quite a bit of trouble in some of the breakaway republics of the former Red China. The danger, of course, is that there has always been a fear that they had or could get nuclear capability and possibly hold a major world power hostage for money or political considerations."

"Go on, General."

Sexton closed the folder, cleared his throat. "Thirty minutes ago a videotape was hand delivered to our embassy in Beijing. Our people there relayed it directly to us by satellite." As he spoke, the viewing screen at the head of the room flickered to life.

The scene that appeared was a long range camera shot, jerkily amateurish, probably made with a hand held video camera. It showed a small village, bucolicly nestled amongst some pristine purplish hillsides. The shot appeared to be taken from several miles away, possibly from a plane above.

"What's that?"

"Watch, Mr. President."

Waverly, along with the first lady and all the other parties in the room, looked intently at the viewing screen. For a moment or two nothing happened. Then a sudden burst of white light, a flash of death, a nanosecond of annihilation, followed by a jerk on the camera. When the shaky image came back into frame and focus, the deadly and all too familiar mushroom cloud was rising up in the valley where the village had once been. The tiny hamlet was no more. It had been wiped from the face of the planet in a matter of seconds. The film abruptly jump cut to a masked figure reading from a communiqué in Chinese. Although Waverly could not understand the words, the figure's manner, coupled with the tape of the village, was bellicose enough to make his message frightening.

"Where did this happen, and when?" Waverly asked out loud.

"Intelligence satellite confirms that a small but powerful thermonuclear device was detonated about two hours ago in the Han Shiun Valley, about 340 miles southeast of Beijing. Somewhere on the order of a quarter megaton. Apparently this was a very real event, staged for our benefit."

"What does this all mean, General? Is it terrorists?"

"National Security and CIA confirms the government of the republic of Chien-Su has been taken over by counterinsurgents. Violently anti-western. Fanatic in their hatred of us." He looked up at the screen. Another masked man was preparing to speak. "The terrorists have provided an English translation, sir. It's about to begin now."

The voice of a masked terrorist translator, flat, monotone, speaking in clipped tones, came over the room's speaker system.

"Attention, imperialist American gangsters! The time for your jingoistic forays into other country's affairs is at an end. There will finally be payment for your criminal acts of aggression. We are claiming our rightful place in the new world order! We have hundreds of nuclear devices set to be delivered to your greatest cities. You will cease to exist as a people! Your corrupt culture is about to be liquidated! You will receive no further warnings."

Waverly shuddered. "Please tell me this is not going out live over CNN."

"Closed Circuit, Mr. President. For our eyes only. The last thing we need is a panic."

The terrorist continued. "We have shown you our capabilities. We can destroy your beloved and vile New York and Washington and Los Angeles and Las Vegas as quickly and easily as we have destroyed this village. Prepare to meet your doom. You cannot stop us. Long live the freedom loving people of the world." The screen went blank.

Waverly looked over at his wife, who was standing alone against a bank of computers.

"What do they want, General? Is this it? Just this tape?"

"It's all we've got, Mr. President. And, apparently, they don't want anything." He paused. "Well, that's not entirely true. They want to destroy us as a nation and a people."

"But why?"

"Who knows why? But the important thing right now to consider is that they seem to be capable of inflicting great damage on us."

"You mean they could actually do this? Send missiles over here?"

"I'm afraid so, Mr. President. With a few well directed missile strikes, directed at major population areas, they could kill a hell of a lot of people."

"How much is a lot of people, General?"

Sexton didn't hesitate. "Depending on wind conditions, terrain factors, etc., I would venture a conservative guess of about 20 million, sir."

The room was silent at this revelation. Waverly looked at his feet. Bits of multicolored confetti still clung to the tips of his patent leather shoetops. "Good God," he muttered, the import of the situation beginning to finally hit him. Sweat began to form in tiny beads on Jack Waverly's forehead. One hell of a first day in office.

"What can be done about this? Can we use airstrikes to prevent them from launching? Pinpoint and take out their missile sites?"

"Negative, Mr. President. They can use mobile missile launchers. And they can launch at any time, before we could even react."

"Anti-missile systems? Take them out before they get over here?"

"Even if we had them, they could conceivably launch a sufficient number to guarantee that some would get through. And you may recall that ABM funds were cut in the last budget, sir."

Waverly detected a wry wrinkle of sarcasm to the General's voice. During the campaign for president, Waverly had run on an anti-military platform, advocating the closing of bases, the mothballing of ships. He had been at the forefront of pushing for bigger defense cuts, including the dismantling of Anti Missile Systems. Now it would seem his choices, which at the time he considered good for America, were coming back to haunt him.

An edge came into Waverly's voice. He felt trumped, helpless. "You mean to stand here and tell me there's nothing we can do? That I have to sit here and watch 20 million Americans get vaporized on the first day of my administration? I don't accept that! Who the hell are these people?" His voice began to get squeaky.

"There is an option, Mr. President." Sexton said, and glanced at and met the eyes of Chief of Staff Krews, who, during this whole conversation, had been lying low behind the president. Krews perceived this glance and stepped forward to speak.

"MAD, Mr. President."

Waverly whirled to face Krews. "Mad? Of course I'm mad. Furious! I feel so helpless! Couldn't we have seen this coming?"

"No, Jack," Krews explained patiently. "Not mad, as in 'angry.' M-A-D. The doctrine of Mutually Assured Destruction."

Waverly paused for a moment. Then his face indicated he understood. "Mutually Assured Destruction--Krews, you are referring to the strategy we've used since the dawn of the nuclear age, back in the 1950s."

Krews nodded. "Ever since other nations became nuclear powers, no one has dared attack an enemy nuclear power, because they knew that an equally destructive attack would be returned, destroying them."

Sexton added, "It kept the balance of power all these years."

"And now it would seem to be out of balance," Krews said.

Waverly wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. "So there's nothing I can do except attack these renegades? Destroy them?"

"We still have first strike capability, sir," Sexton noted. "But I wouldn't count on that for very much longer. I think these birds mean business. You notice, sir, that they made no specific demands."

"But they haven't done anything yet except make threats."

"Threats backed up with a display of their power."

"They only destroyed one of their own villages."

"If they would do that to their own people, they sure wouldn't hesitate to bomb the bejesus out of us, Mr. President," Sexton said.

"How do we even know there were people there?" Waverly asked. "This could all be a bluff, a ruse, to feel us out, make us do something stupid, to embarrass us." He whirled on his chief of staff. "Where's the Vice President?"

"The Vice President and her husband are at the party already."

Krews looked sidelong at Sexton. The little chief of staff spoke again. "Mr. President, this could be an opportune time to attack us. Catch us with our pants down, so to speak, the change of power, the military standing down for the festivities, and all."

"Don't you mean the change from a hawk in the White House to a dove?" There was a silence in the room as Waverly spoke, his voice tinged with rancor. "Iron willed gun-toting President Steele, who never took shit from these third world idiots, replaced by weak sister peacenik Waverly? See if that new pacifist in the White House has the balls to react to the destruction of millions of his people, eh, Krews?"

Krews shifted the weight on his feet uncomfortably. "Sir, we're just trying to think like the enemy might think. From a strategic standpoint, this would be an ideal time to attack, to put us in disarray. I don't think it has anything to do with how a foreign enemy perceives our strength or weakness vis-a-vis the presidency. It's just a classic military move, attack during the change in power. Therefore I think the General's right. We must attack first. We've been threatened. And although we know very little about these terrorists, we've assessed the threat to be credible. Now is the time to act."

"Harry, I'm not going to destroy a nation of a billion people just because of a few terrorist threats."

General Sexton said gravely, "Then you may have already condemned millions of Americans to a horrible death."

"Can't we stall them?" He loosened his tie. "Contact them? Open negotiations?" He glanced around the room. "Where's the goddam Secretary of State?"

"We've tried, but they don't seem to be open to talking, sir."

Waverly bit his knuckle, looked pleadingly around the room. He was trying to find some answer that did not seem to be there. So this was the crucible, the baptism by fire of a new president. This is what it was like to be commander in chief and responsible for millions of lives.

The new president wavered and stalled. Dozens of eyes looked at him hopefully. It was one of those moments in which time seems to stand still. In which the very ticking of wristwatches and heartbeats could be heard and felt. A droplet of sweat formed on Waverly's nose and dripped off. No one moved. The colored lights of the War room's machines blinked silently.

Suddenly the spell was broken. A soldier across the room, manning a radar screen, his face illuminated by its macabre greenish light, suddenly piped up, his voice high and shrill with excitement. "Positive contact, general. Birds away!"

"Confirm that!" barked Krews.

"Confirmed, sir," said a Lieutenant colonel, sitting at another screen. "NORAD copies. Confidence is high. They've just launched twelve bogies."

"ETA?"

"34 minutes, sir. Targets seem to be....one moment, sir...." He checked the trajectory traces on his screen. "New York, Los Angeles, Cheyenne Mountain, and....and us, sir. Washington."

"Jesus Christ," muttered General Sexton. "God help us."

Waverly rushed over to look at the screen, his face a greasy mask. "You mean to tell me they've launched their missiles? Just like that? Why would they do that?"

No one spoke. Waverly peered intently at the traces of green heading for the United States. The viewing screen almost looked like some computer video game or something out of the movie Wargames.

Krews walked gingerly over to the new president and put his hand on his shoulder. "Sir? They need a decision. Do we launch now?"

Waverly stood bolt upright. "Launch now? he screeched, his voice like the tearing of paper. "Kill millions of innocent Chinese just as a payback? That's insane! I won't have that blood on my hands!"

Krews looked at him intently. "Are you sure that's your decision, Mr. President?"

"That's my decision. There will be no launch today." He took a deep breath. He seemed to gain his composure, spoke more confidently. He looked over to his wife, who was smiling at him. "General," he said, never once diverting his gaze from the first lady, "stand down. There will be no military action. Alert all civil defense units. I better get on TV right now and speak to the country."

"That won't be necessary, Jack." A voice, from out of the gloom. Vaguely familiar. All eyes in the room instantly diverted over to a solitary figure standing in front of the viewing screen. "Viewing screen off, please," the voice commanded, and instantly the screen went white. At the same moment all the radar screens went off and the lights in the room came up.

"President Steele!" Waverly cried.

There, standing ramrod straight, was the ex-president.

"I thought you were out of town." Waverly said. Suddenly it all began to dawn on him. He looked at the faces of all the men in the room. That look of terror was suddenly gone. "What's going on here?"

"Sorry for the subterfuge, Jack. But just call it a . . . a trial. Or, perhaps, a test," the ex-president said, making his way over to where Waverly and Sexton stood.

"A test? You mean all of this was..."

"Merely a simulation."

Waverly looked around the room. The soldiers at their radar screens were smiling. Krews was smiling. Sexton looked relieved.

"I don't know whether to hug you or slug you, Mr. President," Waverly said to Steele. "I feel like a man who has just been given a last minute reprieve from the electric chair."

"Come over here, Jack, I think I owe you a bit of an explanation." The two presidents walked over to a corner of the room. Steele put his arm around the younger man, father-like. "You know, Jack, when you beat me in the election I was of course disappointed. Of course you and I have different ideas about certain issues, and I may have said some things on the stump that may have stung a bit. But I don't want you to think that all of this was done to you just because I'm some sort of sore loser."

"Was all this your idea?"

"Not exactly, Jack, although I've known about it for some time."

"How long have you been in on this attempt to....to...."

"Make you shit your pants?"

Waverly laughed, relievng some of the pressure. "For lack of a better term, yes."

"I've known we were going to do this to you for four years. Ever since it was done to me on my inaugural day."

"You mean they did this to you, too."

"Of course," said Steele. "And four years ago I stood here in your place while outgoing president Watson stood in mine, explaining to me just what I am about to tell you."

"Which is, they do this to every new president on his first day, right? Sort of to test his mettle? See if he can take the heat?"

"Exactly," said Steele. "I'm told it goes back to Lincoln. Of course in those days they would manufacture some foreign invasion or other such disaster, to see how the new president would react. Since the days of nuclear missiles, the Pentagon has designed this missile attack scenario, updating it, of course, to reflect current world events. We want it to seem as real as possible."

Waverly still couldn't fathom that he had been so cleverly duped. "I sure bought it,'" he said ruefully. "Hook, line and sinker."

"The Joint Chiefs make sure it's realistic. We have a team that works full time just fine tuning the scenario so that we can use it on each new chief executive. Lieutenant Colonel Martin here is currently in charge of this team."

Waverly looked over at Martin. "Hope we didn't scare you too much, sir. Just doing our job."

Waverly sighed. "I think I need a drink."

Steele laughed. "You came out all right, Jack."

"You mean I passed?"

"Well, it isn't so much a matter of passing or failing. There's no correct solution. We just want to make clear the stresses that a president may have to face."

"And you say every president has had to face this nuclear Armageddon scenario on his first day in office?"

'Every president since Eisenhower."

"Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon?"

"Every president since Eisenhower," Steele repeated.

"So how did you do?"

Steele lowered his voice. "Jack, let me explain something. It's considered a breach of presidential protocol to discuss these matters. I know how the prior chief executives reacted, and you will too, at the proper time....when you are about to leave office, and you are about to put the incoming president through the scenario."

"You can't even give me a hint? God, this is fascinating."

"Be patient, Jack. Look at it as sort of an initiation into the most exclusive club the world has ever known. A hazing, if you will. You know, only 44 gentlemen besides you have ever held this office. It's a responsibility that staggers the mind. And now, you are here. Good luck, Jack. God bless you. And if fate and the electors smile on you, eight years from today you'll be standing here in my place explaining this to the 47th president."

Waverly just shook his head in awe.

"Take care, Jack, and take care of this great country of ours. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some memoirs to write, and a few rounds of golf to catch up on. And I believe you've got a few parties to go to."

The new president and his first lady were just getting back into the limousine when Steele came up to the door. "Give 'em hell, Jack. Take care, Darlene. Always nice to see you."

Waverly turned to Steele. "Thanks, Mr. President. Say, hold on a second." He lowered his voice, bending in close to the ex-President's good ear. "Can't you just give me a hint about how some of our presidents reacted? I don't think I can wait four...er, I mean eight years, to find out."

Steele smiled. "Well, these are national secrets, but since we put you through the wringer back there just now, I don't think it'll hurt to give you a little tidbit." He leaned into Waverly's ear, whispering just one secret. "Carter launched. And Reagan didn't."

Waverly's eyes widened in wonder as he got into the car and it pulled out of the White house basement parking area. The limo then sped up Pennsylvania Avenue, heading for the first inaugural ball.

Hardhat Jack Waverly looked out the window of the speeding car. The bare cherry blossom trees still seemed to be praying for something.