Chapter Seventy-Six

M EETING WITH HEADS of state is always a stressful proposition. They're busy in a sort of way no one really understands until they, themselves, are operating at that level. Joseph knew that he only had a sliver of time in which to get to the White House, through security, and into speaking distance of the president before he was in the doghouse. Then he'd have to sit around the West Wing until there was another minuscule opening in the leader of the free world's schedule. Unlike his first visit, which had been orchestrated in the dark hours of the morning and where he merely needed to be in the Oval Office first thing, this time, Joseph was rushed. He tapped his foot in the security line, he flashed his badge angrily, he was rude to the people he encountered. All things which were unlike Joseph on the regular, but he knew this was a distraction. The President didn't need an update, and he knew that the President wasn't going to be receiving any information that might give him a better feeling about the world. Instead, Joseph was likely going to have to spin some variation of the truth.

Joseph was escorted through the building by a young woman in a suit, a good-looking white girl with her long blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail that bobbed behind her as she practically bounced through the world in front of him. He wanted to talk to her, he wanted to engage in a modicum of human interaction, just for a moment of normalcy, but at the same time, he was beset by the idea that the end of the world was right around the corner, and that there might be nothing to stop it.

The aide brought Joseph to the reception area, and the president's secretary looked the rumpled old man up and down.

"Got dressed up for this," she said, practically sneering.

"Highlight of my week," Joseph replied, happy to serve a little backsnark.

"You are?"

"Joseph Goldman, BEA."

"He's on a call," she said, nodding and scribbling something with her pencil. "Be a minute."

Joseph smiled at her, but she ignored him, turning to her computer and working on something that looked like a spreadsheet. Joseph turned his attention to the window.

"What's the BEA?" a pleasant voice asked.

Joseph turned, and saw the blonde aide looking at him with her big blue eyes.

"Uh," Joseph said, trying to get himself under control.

She's young enough to be your daughter, your granddaughter, for Christ's sake , he thought.

"The Bureau of External Affairs," he finally got out.

"Huh," she said, "never heard of it."

"Let me guess," the cranky secretary barked out, "you like to keep it that way."

Joseph laughed, the nervous laugh of someone whose shitty, but only, joke has been stolen out from under him.

"Uh," Joseph hemmed, "we do tend to prefer to remain, uh, in the shadows."

"National security type stuff?" the aide asked.

"Yes, exactly," Joseph replied.

"Like the NSA?"

"No, not really."

"CIA?"

"Closer, I suppose."

"He can't tell you, hun," the secretary interrupted. "At least while he's sober."

Joseph frowned at the woman, wondering what she was implying. Joseph couldn't remember ever interacting with the woman before. Why would she know—

The oval office door opened and the president strode out, a huge smile on his charismatic face.

"Joseph!" he said, his perfectly manicured hand reaching out to grab Joseph's shoulder. "Come! Talk to me about, well, things."

Joseph tried to wave and/or say goodbye to the aide, but the president was too invested in steering them into the Oval Office.

Once inside with the door closed, however, the charade stopped. The president dropped his arm, and his face, and walked behind the desk before slumping into his chair.

"It's bad out there," he said.

"The reception room?" Joseph asked.

The president frowned. "I'm down. If I don't turn things around, there's no chance at a second term."

"Ah," Joseph said, stepping slowly towards the chair in front of the desk of the president, hoping the president would invite him to sit down.

He didn't.

Joseph remained standing.

"You didn't exactly sound great on the phone," the president said, pushing a few papers out his view and leaning back in the chair. "What's going on?"

"Right," Joseph said, begging his brain to come up with some believable lie.

It didn't.

"New York is, uh," Joseph began, "not going quite as expected."

"You don't look good," the president said.

"I'm not feeling particularly well, sir."

"Sick?"

"Shot."

The president blinked. "Shot?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

"When?"

"A few days ago, in New York."

"And you're on your feet?"

"Trying not to be."

"Sit, please."

Joseph smiled thankfully and sat down, letting out a breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding.

"We were attacked in New York," Joseph said, "and we lost a field agent."

"Wait—" the president started.

"She's still alive," Joseph interrupted to add, "but she's medically sidelined for now. I've got her in the office, helping from here."

"Where you are."

"Yes."

"Someone mentioned something to me about a Senate Hearing for you."

"That happened as well."

"Piss someone off?"

"Likely."

"Do you know who?'

"No."

"Okay. So, are you ready to tell me why someone in your office thinks we are, and I'm reasonably sure I'm quoting this correctly, fucked?"

"Mr. President," Joseph said, "I'm not ready to risk exposing you to this information. I can't have you, well, losing it because of dealing with this."

"Broad strokes."

"Broad strokes…"

"Explain it to me in, say, sports. You can do that, right?"

Joseph nodded, despite knowing full well that his sporting knowledge was limited to the softball he'd played as a police officer once, nearly forty years prior. There was a reason he wasn't invited to the second game.

"Football," Joseph said. "You know football?"

"Love it," the president replied. "America's real pastime."

"Sure," Joseph replied. "Imagine, for a minute, there are two teams, uh, red and blue."

"There's always two teams."

"Right. But, uh, okay, the red team is about to score."

"On the goal line."

"Sounds good. Or, well, they've got, uh, two plays left to run and when they do, they win the game."

"You don't exactly know the game of football, do you?"

"No."

"Is there some way you can tell me this? I have a feeling it's important."

"There is, Mr. President, but the thing is, even if you know what's going on, there's nothing you'll be able to do."

"I am the President of the Goddamn United States. There's always something I can do. Now what is the fucking problem?"

"The cult that started this, they're two rituals away from the end of the world. One big one, one small easy one. And the small easy one is second."

"Why haven't you stopped them yet?"

"We don't know where they are."

"New York, right?"

"Yes."

"So what if we bomb the city?"

"Bomb the city of New York?"

"Yes."

"I, uh, I—"

"You're talking end of the world, correct?"

"Yes, but—"

"New York is 25 million souls, but the world is 7 billion. 7 billion plus. And all of humanity. It's a trade that might need to happen."

"I don't know if—"

"Is this the potential end of the world or not?"

"It very much is."

"Okay, then. I will put a plan in motion."

"To destroy New York City?"

"If need be. If they get that first ritual done, and then they're just one yard away from punching the pigskin into the end zone, you tell me. As soon as that happens, we have no choice left but to destroy any place this cult might be. If only to save the rest of the world."

Joseph nodded, understanding that the fate of New York, and the world, he supposed, hinged on his two people in New York.

The president stabbed his finger onto the intercom button. "Get me the Joint Chiefs," he said.

"Yes, Mr. President," the secretary replied, snark free.

"You," the president said to Joseph, "get out of here. I'd really prefer not to lose my voting base in New York, so try not to fuck this up more."

"Yes, Mr. President," Joseph said, getting to his feet and leaving the Oval Office.