58

Dominique Wiewall

July 11, 2045. Colorado Springs, Colorado.

Orders were shouted. All around the war room, rapid conversations took place. Dominique left her swivel seat as unobtrusively as possible, and went to stand by the exit. Not that she was planning to go anywhere; she just felt like she should get out of the way, because she was of no use in this situation. Worse, she felt as if people were silently asking the back of her head why she’d made the defenders complete psychopaths.

“They’re securing oil fields and refineries as they advance on Baghdad,” some colonel shouted. He was near the front, looking at a live feed of a tactical map. “Long-range rockets launched from the Persian Gulf have hit the center of gravity in Baghdad. No word on the status of the premier and other leaders working there.”

A civilian in a black suit was suddenly at Dominique’s side. He offered her a bottle of water. “You all right?”

She accepted the water with a nod of thanks. “I’m just trying to stay out of the way. I’m not of any use in this situation.” Someone shouted to the president. She watched him climb the steps, two at a time, then huddle with two strategists. “To be honest,” she said laughing, “I’m not even sure why I’m here. I was on the Australia team.”

“Oh, I can answer that, Dr. Wiewall. The operation in Australia was recorded—everything is recorded; we’re being recorded right now. The president went over that recording, so he knows who fucked up and who didn’t. You didn’t.”

Dominique laughed harshly. “No, I only designed the bloody things. I didn’t fuck up at all.” If felt good to say it, to get it out in the open.

“You had to be quick. Not to mention, you saved the human race.”

She stepped closer, grateful for the words, for a sympathetic ear. “I’m still responsible for what they are. I should have considered what they’d be like, not simply how effective they’d be in battle.”

The man gave her a kind smile. “I’m not sure you’re being fair to yourself.”

She offered the civilian her hand. “I’m sorry, I don’t know you.”

“Forrest Rosenberg. Secret Service.”

“Thank you for telling me about the recordings. I feel better, knowing everyone in the room doesn’t think I’m an idiot.”

“No problem.”