The Dawn's Early Light

JayCee, Strike Team Charlie, Jonas, and Harry all had weapons aimed at Ch'karya within two seconds.

He lifted his hands in front of himself, palms forward, in a gesture of peaceful intent. "By all means hold your weapons to bear on me until you are assured of my identity and intentions, but, I implore you, do not be hasty to fire them." Looking at Todd, he said, "I am open to your reading, with no barriers save one area where I have stored confidences entrusted to me that are not mine to share. I give you my word, there is nothing harmful to Earth or the U.F.P. there."

Todd appeared to be studying Ch'karya through half-closed eyes for 13 seconds – the equivalent, at telepathic speeds, of a tear-open-the-cushions thorough search. At length he addressed the faux-Vulcan. "You had better explain this yourself. I know it's true, and I would find it tough to spell out." To the others he added, "He's all right; you can stand down on command."

Austin asked, "You're certain, Todd?"

"Yes."

"Okay: M'lin, Bry, go to rest guard. The rest of you can stand down." Austin was setting the two strike team members with the highest stamina and quickest reflexes to hold what would have been an at-ease stamce except that they continued to hold drawn weapons aimed not quite directly at Ch'karya. The other Charlie members went to a true at-ease stance. JayCee unobtrusively moved to a position where he could best back up the two in 'rest guard' stance, catching Austin's and then their eyes to signal his intention as he did.

"I am Tal-shiar," Ch'karya said. Armbridge and the more knowledgeable among the teens were thunderstruck. The Tal-shiar were the Romulan equivalent of Section 31. "My proper name is T'Stavirr; if you follow the Earth custom of matching the names of my people to the legends and history of your Rome, you might well call me Horatius, for my namesake was a famous defender of a bridge."

"My assignment when I came to Earth was to identify and if possible eliminate members of a faction among my people who were seeking to subvert the treaty between the Star Empire and the Federation which set up the non-contact policy and the Neutral Zone, by fomenting or exacerbating problems on Earth and other key Federation planets. I chose to 'hide myself in plain sight' by impersonating a Vulcan, and amused myself by choosing an ironic name: a chikarya is a small, sinuous Vulcan carnivore which preys on gnawers by pursuing them even into their burrows and dens, much as the Earth weasel and ferret hunt rats." He essayed a thin smile.

"I must apologize to you, Director McConnaghay, and your little telepaths and other companions. Wrongly believing those whom I sought after were behind the crimes of your F.C.C., I infiltrated that church, and hence met you at that trial. It was inappropriate then to break my cover, so I hid my true identity and let the two little telepaths read my adopted Vulcan one. Now things have changed."

"There has been no word from my homeworld in weeks. And now there are Warbirds in the sky, raining destruction on your cities. I judged it to be proper and my duty to my people and the Star Empire to break cover and offer my assistance to Earth and the Federation."

"Incredible as it sounds," Todd interjected, "all he is saying is the truth as he knows it."

"I read him too," Peter piped up, "including the stuff he wouldn't let Todd see. He wants ta help us, not hurt us." Turning to Ch'karya/Horatius, he asked wide-eyed, "Could you really do that to the Klingons?"

"We could if we needed to," the other answered, adding under his breath, "Four-balled fanatics!"

Armbridge and most of the Clan caught his comment and chuckled. "But what possible help could one man, even someone like you, be against Warbirds?" Armbridge asked.

"Do you think the Star Empire would entrust the amount of warmaking power in one of our ships to anyone without a means to override his commands if he should go rogue?" the Romulan answered. "I have those override codes. And some of them were hardwired in."

"So if we got you to a radio transmitter," Scott mused, "you could remotely override the interior commands the Warbird is obeying, and defeat it that way?"

"Many of them, yes. Not everything is subject to remote control – but I believe that enough is."

"And how can we be sure of your intent?" Austin asked. "Forgive my insult if you are being honest with us, but it is very like Romulan tactics to make us believe we have unforeseen help, as a part of a plot to defeat us."

"You cannot," Ch'karya/Horatius said frankly. "The best proof I could provide, I have already given you: open access to my mind by your telepath here."

"I trust him," Peter said to Jonas. "I've seen his mind, even what he's hiding, and he's playing square with us. Give him his chance."

"It's your call, Jonas," Austin said. "You know my concerns already."

"You're in command," Mac, one of the recent add-ons to Strike Team Charlie, said to him. "Not him. How's he get the final say?"

"Adam assigned us to work for Kurt," Austin replied. "And although Adam appointed Kurt to his job, the everyday operation of his facilities goes with the division they are located in, in this case Northeast. Plus I'm less interested in who's got authority than in having a clear line of command. You end up costing people's lives if you don't."

"You're assuming I'll defer to your decision," Armbridge observed with a touch of acerbity.

"If you have the say," Jonas asked him in a friendly tone, "how will you decide?"

"Beyond the word of an admitted Romulan, and the claims of a couple of kids, what grounds do I have to do anything?" Armbridge snarked back.

"If you need an affidavit for use in court, sworn to by certified Vulcan witnesses as provided in law, both Peter and I are qualified to give one," Todd shot back.

"And if you throw away the chance this guy is giving you, to defeat that Warbird, and we both survive this attack," Harry said in a deceptively calm conversational tone, "I give you my solemn word I'll swear out a warrant charging you with high treason against the U.S.A., the League, and the Federation. I've seen too many government agents get away scot free with crimes already. You will not become another of them."

"And you do not have to bear the responsibility of making that decision," Jonas put in. "When it was a matter of New York violating Vulcan prerogatives guaranteed by treaty, the proper step was to bring it to those charged with diplomacy, and the State Department was the right place to go for help, instead of immediately escalating it to an interstellar incident. That's what we were doing here in the first place."

"Now," he went on, "it's a question of defending Earth and the Federation. That sticks me with having to make the decision, nnd I can request the assistance of the United States in mounting that defense. Including State Department radio transmitters."

He glanced at Harry, who nodded. "I've been listening and thinking things through. My partner, whose judgment I trust with my life – with all our lives – agrees. Richard Armbridge, as a Director in Family Clan Short of Vulcan and a Lieutenant in Starfleet, I hereby request and require the use of radio transmitters at this facility, for the defense of Washington, D.C., against Romulan attack."

Armbridge turned to the phone, and entered a two digit code. Then as he spoke, they all heard it echoed across the building's P.A. System: "This is Armbridge. Radio techs on duty, meet me and my party at the south stairwell. Top priority; time, now!"

"Follow me," he said.

---

On Interstate 66 in northern Virginia, some miles west of Washington, the trio who had been approaching the scene when the President's pod came down, and had pulled over and stopped, went over to investigate.

"What is it?" Marina, the housewife/ex-nurse asked.

"I'm not sure," Fred the insurance man said, "but when I was getting out of the Air Force eight years ago, they were developing these for emergency escapes from stricken aircraft. There's likely someone inside."

"Should we open it?" Marina asked.

"We better," Bill the trucker answered. "Look: it's broken underneath, where it hit this outcrop."

"And it fell damn hard," Fred added.

With help from the other two, Bill triggered the releases and lifted off the upper half.

"Holy shit, it's the President!" Fred exclaimed.

"And he's hurt," Marina said.

"I'll radio for help," Bill said. "Got a multichannel unit in the rig."

"Wait a minute," Marina said. "I was a nurse before I quit to raise a family. Here, jot this down." Quickly she gave a no-instruments summary of the President's vitals. "And he's not breathing. I'll start CPR."

Bill hurried off to radio for help; Marina began to apply CPR to the stricken Bush.

Tuning to the emergency channel, Bill sent, "We have an apparent aircraft ejection pod down just off I-66." He gave the mile marker number. "Need paramedics and police at scene. Man in pod is injured, unconscious, not breathing." He read off Marina's assessment of vitals. "And he appears to be the President."

The response was belligerently crisp. "The country's under attack. We don't have time to deal with practical jokes."

Bill snapped, "This is not a joke. There's an emergency-eject pad down just off the highway with an injured man in it. And the man looks enough like President Bush to be his twin brother, if it's not him."

"I'm tracing this call; this joke is not funny, mister."

As Bill was drawing breath to chew the woman he'd reached a new one, another voice, sounding like it was further from the mike, came on. "Chill out, Bertha! That plane crash down by Front Royal was Air Force One. And the President wasn't on it, though the First Lady was, God rest her soul. Send the man what he asked for."

"All right. Where'd you say you are, mister?"

Bill repeated the location, then repeated the need for paramedics and police, and reiterated Marina's assessment of vitals for good measure. Then he said "Out" and went back to the pod, thoroughly ticked off.

After a couple of minutes, another car stopped, and a man and two 13-year-old boys got out. They hurried down to the three at the pod. "Let us spell you, ma'am," Devon said. "We both learned it in Scouts for our lifesaving merit badge."

Marina finished the compression she was on, then said, "Here. And thanks."

After a few minutes, Tam told Devon, "Switch." They swapped places as smoothly as if they'd been practicing – which, in fact, they had been, just not with a living, injured patient instead of a dummy.

Shortly thereafter the police pulled up, followed moments later by the paramedics. They took over efficiently.

"Get an ambulance out here, Lou," one of the paramedics told the state policeman. "And get yourself some help, for crowd control. Then bring us the body board from our van, please."

---

In the city outside, the Warbird continued to deal out destruction. One of the disruptor bank gunnery crews, evidently commanded by an especially stubborn Romulan, continued to take random pot shots at the buildings that had held up against the initial barrage, such as Andrews AFB, the Supreme Court and State Department buildings, and the Library of Congress. The others targeted a variety of other buildings, both governmental and private dwellings and businesses, in what was apparently a display of Schrechlichheit aimed at cowing humans by its sheer frightfulness. Office buildings, condos, apartment complexes, furniture stores, all turned to atomic particles and debris under the Warbird's disruptor beams. Young and old, residents and commuters, they were all trying to escape it.

Hovering on their 'magic carpet,' Galen and Tilden moved steadily above the west side of Washington, spotting refugees and targeting them for CSNIC to transport. There was a little old lady, hobbling along as quickly as she could; there was a woman and a teenaged girl, each carrying a toddler and leading four other kids; there was a set of platinum blond twin boys of about ten, with a look of terror on their faces and tears streaming from their eyes. There was a man, a woman, and a boy, weeping as they bent over the corpses of a decapitated teenaged girl and of an older woman who appeared to have had everything below her waist vaporized. A vastly overweight man was barking orders at a woman and a girl in front of him.

At the building inadvertently destroyed by the ill-fated 'Jello-bearing Romulan', a spry old woman was trying to climb down the ruins the explosion had laid open; a pale, skinny young man wearing glasses was descending diagonally down them more or less in her direction, apparently in an effort to reach and help her. In the street below, a redheaded preteen boy was trying to comfort a dirty-blond teenager and a dark-haired younger boy, both crying openly.

Two streets beyond, a man in a wheelchair was holding a baby while three small boys rode shotgun on the sides of his chair. A young woman keeping one leg bent and carrying her weight awkwardly on the other leg and a quad-cane hobbled alongside him.

Tilden focused on each group with his binoculars, being sure to get enough of the surroundings to give the A.I. complex the needed referents; and they transported them out. Jack reported, "Governor Jacobs of Iowa threw the state's facilities open to us again, just like he did after the Montana fight. We're transporting the injured to hospitals there or the F.Y.S. Hospital in Charleston, and the able-bodied refugees to Wells Fargo Arena. They're reuniting families that got separated, and assessing needs, and sending people where they can get help." One after another, they focused on hundreds of individuals and groups, and watched them vanish, to reappear in Iowa.

Having an ironic thought, Galen giggled and started singing:

"Well, you don't know what we can find.
Why don't you come with me
On a magic carpet ride?"

On they flew, over what seemed like a never-ending stream of refugees.

Above Route 95 north towards Baltimore, then I-270 to Frederick, then 95 south, and finally I-66 west, a little redheaded boy hovered. As he spotted pile-ups blocking the road, he teleported the vehicles to the shoulder or the median. Then he implanted an urge on the cars' and trucks' occupants to get their baggage, and when they had done so, he teleported them to Wells Fargo Arena. No longer backed up by the accidents, the traffic surged forward.

---

Peter got the introspective look on his face that meant he was rapidly sorting through cause-and-effect sequences, then aged himself to about 40. His clothing transformed to what appeared to be the working uniform of a Starfleet Lieutenant Commander – but ripped and torn as if he had been in battle. Smudges on exposed skin completed the effect. After getting Todd's attention, he held out one hand; one of the A.I.s dropped into it a small plastic vial containing glitter left over from the kids' Hallowe'en celebration. He opened the vial and shook some out, causing it to swirl around him in a cylindrical manner. Then he teleported out.

In the office of Maj. Gen. Gunnar Hardcrest, Commander of Quantico Marine Corps Base, some thirty miles south of Washington, the by-now-familiar sparkle characteristic of a Starfleet transporter in operation appeared in front of his desk. As the sparkle effect died away, the body of a blond man of about 40 dressed in a ragged Starfleet officer's uniform came into phase in the area it had been.

"Name's Lambert," the arrival said. "I just made it out of Washington, and transported here first chance I got. With respect, may I ask your intentions in this emergency?"

"Certainly, Commander. I have 10,000 troops at full alert, mostly NCOs attending the schools here. I've been trying to get through to the Commandant of the Corps, at the Pentagon, to see where we're needed. We can move out within five minutes of his answer."

"The Pentagon's gone, General; it's rubble," Peter answered. "The Romulan ship flattened it, along with the Capitol and several other government buildings. They beamed down ground troops, I estimate about 450 of them. What is opposing them amounts to the surviving police, a few honor guards, and a dozen Starfleet-equipped troops at the State Department."

"Then it's on me," Hardcrest said to himself. Raising his voice, "Adjutant! Get in here!" To Peter he continued, "We can have fifty choppers full of troops in Washington in 20 minutes."

"No!" Peter said forcefully. "The Warbird will shoot them out of the sky. Ground assault – it'll take a little longer but you'll get your troops there intact."

As Peter was saying this, the Adjutant had come in. Hardcrest gave orders: "All forces make ready for mechanized ground transport to Washington. Mission is to combat Romulans and retake our national capital. We move out in five minutes."

"Anything more you can tell me, Commander?" he asked Peter.

"Electronic communications is not just jammed, they're bollixed up, giving false data," Peter said. "Tell your men to believe only what they see and hear with naked eyes and ears, and maybe not even all of that." Hardcrest nodded; this was not unexpected. "Also, I recommend you coordinate with Colonel Casey of Clan Short Special Forces, at the State Dept. building. He's got one advantage you won't have: direct communications with the rest of the world."

"Thanks; I'll do that," Hardcrest said.

Peter then made a show of "pulling out a communicator" and "requesting he be beamed up" before teleporting out.

Hardcrest walked to the door with determination and almost a sense of destiny; this was what he'd trained for all his life, and he'd do it right.

---

Duane Washington marched south along 34th Street alongside his father Earl. Unlike the experience of many of his friends, Duane had an excellent relationship with his father, whom he all but idolized. Earl was a hard worker, a good father, a generally level-headed man. He did feel that the cards were subtly stacked against black families in the District, nothing overt but a slight touch of bigotry against black people, against inner-city dwellers, against people in the District, and would from time to time speak up on the problems they faced.

Duane had never seen him as worked up as he had gotten from the recent meetings that Simon Kohler had instigated. Now they were marching on the Capitol, to exercise their First Amendment right of "petitioning for a redress of grievances" to the Federal Senators and Congressmen who had final say over District laws. Now they were marching, father and son, right behind Kohler.

With a grunt Kohler raised his hand to the back of his neck, as if a mosquito or black fly had bitten him. Duane and Earl turned to look at him.

'It's like a bad horror movie' ran through Duane's mind as Kohler seemed to transform before their eyes. His skin took on a greenish cast. His ears and eyebrows became pointed.

Ahead, over the Mall, Duane caught a flash out of the corner of his eye as the Warbird uncloaked.

Then Earl rounded on Kohler. "You Romulan son of a bitch. You got us all stirred up...."

What Earl may have intended to say next we will never know, because the fake Kohler pulled something from his pocket and shot Earl with it.

Duane had not lived in the District for sixteen years without growing street smarts. Though he had never joined a gang and had no desire to ever do so, when out on the streets he carried a knife in his pocket "just in case." Until now he had never had occasion to use it.

Now he drew it, stabbed Kohler in the gut, then again between the ribs – a lucky lunge that went through his Romulan-displaced heart. As Kohler fell to the ground, Duane caught the body of his mortally wounded father. "Don't die, Poppa!" he cried out as tears fell down his cheeks.

---

The two State Dept. radio techs. met Armbridge and the Clan members at the foot of the stairwell, and everyone began the climb up the stairs. They gave questioning looks to the motley group accompanying Armbridge: teens in fatigues, other teens and a kid wearing Clan cloaks, Kurt in a suit, and Ch'karya/Horatius, still in his Vulcan robes.

"We are aiding Clan Short in their effort to subvert the Romulan ship," Armbridge explained in clipped-off tones.

"I'm surprised we still have power," Kurt observed.

"Most of the Federal buildings – are on a – triply-redundant – underground system – supplied by – dedicated fusion generators," Thom, one of the radio men, explained in bursts of a few words each as he tried to catch his breath on the stairs.

As the men fired up their transmitters, Ch'karya/Horatius said, "I will need to transmit in base-six batches."

"No problem," Ben, the other tech, replied, resetting one knob. "You should see what we have to go through to send signals to Tellarite facilities." He grinned.

As Ch'karya sat down to send his signals, Austin, Ethan, Bryan, and Mike from Strike Team Charlie positioned themselves adjacent to him. 'Monitor his every thought,' Austin thought at Todd. 'We're giving him his chance, but I'm still not positive I trust him.' Todd nodded to indicate he'd read Austin and would do so.

Austin's wife Becky and Harry positioned themselves at a window where they could observe the Warbird hovering over the city.

 

"I shall attempt to bring down their shields," Ch'karya stated, keying in codes. As Becky and Harry watched, one of the two surviving planes from Dover hit the Warbird with a phaser shot – which washed uselessly off the Romulan ship's shields. "No good," Harry called out.

"They must have re-coded that sequence; I was afraid of that," Ch'karya said. "No matter; I still have modes that may work." He began entering another string of codes, and said, "This series is deeper in the core programming. If it works, it should override the anti-gravity to take the ship up into space, where Earth's ships can dispose of it."

Becky called out, "It lurched, but then held its position."

Austin glanced at Todd, who mouthed, "He's sincerely trying," with his lips without making a sound. Austin flashed the young telepath a brief smile of thanks, and reverted his attention to the Romulan they were putting their trust in.

Ch'karya, for his part, seemed almost angry in his frustration. "Then I will use one of the hardwired functions – to turn and move the ship on impulse power." He punched in yet another sequence of codes, with almost vicious finger taps.

Slowly the Warbird rotated and began to move in a southeasterly direction. As Harry reported this, the group in the radio room erupted into cheers.

"Not so fast," Jonas cautioned. "We may have eliminated the ship, but there's still a bunch of Romulans on the ground out there." Austin nodded seriously; everyone else sobered.

---

The ambulance arrived at the pod-crash site just before the vanguard of refugees driving west on I-66. The body board was slid into place, along with a cervical collar, all while CPR was being continued. The ambulance took off, moving as quickly as possible up the shoulder until a driver let it onto the highway, at which point it pressed its way ahead of the pack and headed for Winchester Medical Center.

---

In Arkham, Maureen stumbled into the kitchen and poured herself a coffee. She had had a terrible night: fitful sleep the first half, finally drifting off to sleep about 4:00. It wasn't like Jonas was doing anything dangerous, and he had been away from home before. But she still had an uneasy, ominous feeling about this trip, and that had disturbed her sleep, causing her to sleep in, once she finally fell into deep sleep, far later than she usually did. Sipping her coffee, she moved into the living room.

And stopped cold. The room was full. Josiah was still at home, with little Joey on his lap as usual. Abbie was sitting nearby. George was there, as were his boys. Philip and Linda were sitting on the floor, each with an arm around the other, with a twin sitting between the legs of each, leaning back against their big brother or his girlfriend. Calvin and Manuel were on a couch next to each other; Gilroy and one of the kids they'd brought home from the F.C.C. last Sunday occupied the other end of it. An assortment of other kids were scattered around the room.

Everyone's attention was glued to the TV. "...the attacks," said the newscaster. "It's not yet known whether the attacks are connected to the widespread rioting, which has hit at least New York, Washington, Chicago, and Los Angeles. There are conflicting reports out of San Jose."

A woman reporter replaced him. "Here in America, Birds of Prey apparently fired on the docks along the Hudson in New York, in Houston, and in San Pedro/Long Beach, California, setting them ablaze. Unconfirmed reports say they also attacked Sao Paulo, Brazil; Rotterdam; Hamburg; Mumbai, India; Shanghai, China; and Kobe, Japan. In each case they reportedly targeted the port facilities." Short video clips accompanied the story, as she became a voice-over for them.

The male reporter was back. "There has been no word from the President. Starfleet has recalled the ships carrying Tesnian refugees. A Federation spokesman said he knew of no reason for the Romulan attack, but noted that the highly secretive Star Empire has not responded to attempts at contact for several days."

He paused. "To recap the major news: London, Washington, St. Petersburg, and Beijing have been cut off from contact. All communications are unreliable, even satellite feeds. But it appears that all four capitals have been attacked by Romulan Warbirds. We'll broadcast more on this as we learn it. Over to you, Deborah."

Josiah lowered the volume slightly, keeping it loud enough to hear but low enough that those in the room could talk over it. "Good morning, my dear – though it is not a particularly good one. Jonas called earlier, concerned about the riots, before the news about the attack broke. He told me to stay home, keep the kids safe, check out the news, and gather the others where they could duck into the shielded area underground. Skipper and the Martins will be along shortly."

"What in the world has happened?" Maureen asked.

"It looks like we've been attacked by the Romulans," Calvin spoke up. "And Jonas is down there in the thick of it." He looked extremely worried.

Maureen sagged into a chair and began to cry. Josiah set Joey onto his own feet and hurried to comfort her; Joey tagged along to help. "Don't cry, Momma," he said with little-boy simplicity. "It'll be all right."

Abbie looked devastated. Calvin and Manuel got up to try and comfort her.

Little Randy, the seven-year-old redheaded telepath whom George Wentworth had adopted, had been lounging between his big brother Philip's legs, leaning back across his chest. Now he sat bolt upright with a "D'oh" expression on his face. "Jack," he called out to the Division's A.I., "Do you know where exactly Jonas and Harry are? Are they all right?"

There was a brief pause, then "They're safe in the shielded bunker beneath the State Dept. Building. They're helping work out plans to get rid of the Warbird over Washington. Todd says not to worry."

"How in the world do you know that?" Abbie asked incredulously.

"All us A.I.s are linked together in CSNIC," Jack answered patiently, "and the Logan clones are tied into that network telepathically. Todd and Tilden are there with them, 'n' they're the only sure way to get information in or out of Washingon without a chance of the Romulans intercepting or corrupting it."

"Keep us posted." This was from Josiah, and his tone said he meant business.

---

As the Warbird began to move away, down the Potomac and out to sea, Tilden began to flag a little, and Galen noticed. "Hey, take a breather," he told the young Logan clone. "We've got time now to get 'em to safety." Speaking to CSNIC through Tilden, he asked, "Can you guys see Washington clearly now?"

"They say they still don't trust what they're getting," Tilden said. "I'll be all right, really."

"Still, take a few minutes break," Galen responded. "Better that than you losing focus partway through a transport." Tilden ruefully nodded agreement. Getting an idea, Galen said, "Hey, look at my hand. Guys, transport a soda and a candy bar here to give Mr. I-Can-Take-It some extra energy." The requested items appeared in his hand; he handed them to Tilden, who grinned and began to eat the one and drink the other.

Extending his Miky-senses, Galen studied the building the ill-fated Romulan sapper had inadvertently blown up instead of his intended target. "You know, I think there's somebody alive under that rubble," he sent to Peter.

"Be right back," Peter told Jonas and the others, and hopped to Archnania, where he popped in on Eli and Benji, who were resting up after helping him the past four days, including early that morning.

"I need your help again," he said simply, and gave them the picture Galen had given him.

"Where's this?" Benji asked.

"Washington, D.C.," Peter answered. "Half the city looks like that."

"What're you waiting for?" Eli asked. "Let's go!"

With a Mikyvis and two master telekinetics on the job, the rubble pile that had been a building rapidly restacked itself as a neat pile of rubble in the middle of the street. They unearthed an elderly man who appeared dead, two comatose toddlers saved from being crushed when a wardrobe toppled onto their crib in such a way as to leave an open space for them, and then a cherry table with its legs broken off. When it flew over to join 'Apartment-Building-henge', it revealed a beam pinning down a teenage boy. One hand was bent at an odd direction, apparently from something having fallen on it; he was unconscious but seemingly otherwise uninjured. "He probably used up what energy he had trying to get that beam off himself one-handed," Benji speculated. They lifted it away.

"You guys want to go back to Archnania, right?" Peter asked them.

"Nope," Eli answered simply. "Looks like we're needed here."

Catching what Eli and Benji were thinking, Peter sent, "Hey, Aladdin! Bring your flying carpet down here; you've got passengers!"

Galen and Tilden zoomed down. Knowing the TK twins from their work the previous weekend, Galen waved Hi to them. "We can help move rubble on rescues," Benji explained. Tilden pointed out some kids he thought he'd seen, and the four of them took off on their carpet. Peter giggled, then transported the four people they'd unearthed to Walter Reed Medical Complex, and rejoined the group at the State Dept. building.

---

The ambulance driver poured on the horses to get the stricken President to the Winchester Medical Center and its Level Two Trauma Center emergency department. He radioed ahead, and a team was there to expedite the transfer as he pulled up to the ER doors. A hurried medical assessment led to X-rays and an emergency tracheotomy to keep him breathing. Beyond that – "Somebody try to reach the First Lady."

"The First Lady's dead," someone who had been monitoring the emergency channels responded.

"Then phone his mother; with his girls under 18, she's legal next-of-kin."

At length: "Bush residence."

"This is Loretta Bird. I am a trauma surgeon with Winchester Medical Center emergency services, and it is imperative I speak with Barbara Bush."

"One moment."

"Dr. Bird? This is Barbara Bush."

"I am not sure how to break this to you, ma'am. The President is here in our emergency center. Air Force One crashed a few miles south of here; the President was found, not breathing and injured, in an emergency ejection pod. We performed an emergency tracheotomy on him to keep him breathing. I will need your authorization to take any further steps to stabilize him. But I am sorry to report that the prognosis is not good. He has suffered fractures of thoracic vertebrae T5 through T10. This is the same suite of injuries that left Christopher Reeve a quadriplegic. I do not yet know if we can do anything to restore any control of his body to him."

"And Laura?"

"I was told she was killed in the crash, I'm sorry to say."

"Dr Bird!" The new voice was male, and had a take-charge tone to it. "This is the other George Bush, the President's father."

"Yes sir."

"You must immediately get word of my son's condition to the Vice President and to Speaker Hastert and Senator Byrd. That's a requirement of law. Then – do all you can for my son. We'll be there as soon as we may." There was a catch in the ex-President's voice.

"I shall, sir. Shall I take what steps I think are indicated to stabilize his condition while you're en route?"

"Yes. Do so; we authorize it."

"Thank you, sir."

---

To be continued...