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THE PRESIDENT IS AT the lake, popping open a bottle of Peroni Nastro Azzurro. He prefers this Italian brand, but can never drink it anywhere but Camp David. Where there are photographers, which to the president’s great annoyance is everywhere else, he makes a point of drinking Bud, Lone Star, Sam Adams. Election day is right around the corner.

With him are the members of an ad hoc war room, none of them in bathing attire.

“The Arabs are ready to roll,” Admiral Staley says. “No doubt about that.”

“Big?” the president asks. He dips a toe in the water. It is not quite as warm as he would like, but he still intends to swim out to the platform a half mile out. Two Boston Whalers—engines idling, each holding four Secret Service agents, one of them equipped with oxygen—stand by to accompany him.

“We invaded Iraq with less,” Staley says. “Over a thousand tanks, Jordanian, backed up by mechanized infantry, Egyptian those. Strung out all along the western border, there’s enough Syrian and Iraqi ground forces to surround Washington D.C.”

Shielding his eyes from the sun with both hands, Felix St. George peers out onto the lake—this is as artificial as his gesture, which is meant suggest he can be depended on for the long view. “Mr. President, if Israel has the capacity, this is the time they’ll effectuate.”

“You’re talking what, Felix—Armageddon?”

“Mr. President,” the security advisor says. “Do you recall the story of Samson?”

“Delilah gave him a haircut, that one?”

“That one, Mr. President. Sir, he pulled down everything around him.”

No slouch at gestures himself, the president hands Flo Spier his watch. “Flo?”

“Sir, if this goes nuclear, a radioactive cloud will cover the globe. Mr. President, I hate to sound cynical...”

“No, you don’t. Because you’re so good at it.” Now both the president’s feet are in the water. “Go ahead.”

“Mr. President, those Jordanian tanks better take out Tel Aviv before Tel Aviv takes out the world.”

The president stretches his arms over his head, then straight out, then stretches again. “Admiral?”

“Mr. President?”

“What are the odds? Am I going to get to see that blowjob movie tonight?”

“Mr. President, aside from the nuclear option, which doesn’t seem like they’ve got any way to deliver, Israel’s down to a few tanks, and they’re strung out in an easily punctured line. Sir, by the time you finish that film this evening, the State of Israel, such as it is, will no longer exist.”

The president chugs the last of his Peroni and, in a final gesture, hands the empty to Admiral Staley. “Well, I always said they should have put it on a travel poster,” the president says, turning to the lake. “Israel—see it while it exists.”

The president dives in, his smooth, even stroke barely disturbing the surface of the water as the two purring Boston Whalers full of Secret Service personnel follow at a discreet distance. Aside from the two small boats, the president has the entire lake to himself.