Chapter Nineteen

CHAPTER NINETEEN

COUNTDOWN TO ZERO HOUR 13 HOURS AND 06 MINUTES

AMERICANS WERE GOING to die today. The only question for President Dawson and his administration was how many.

Surreal images played out on the screens in front of him: Gridlocked evacuation traffic as far away as Ohio. The Canadian and Mexican borders were now closed and not letting Americans in. There were preppers in gas masks in Georgia. Rental cars, everywhere, were unavailable. Toilet paper, everywhere, was gone. Financial institutions were limiting withdrawals to avoid a run on the banks. And that goddamn looped footage playing over and over on Fox of the exact moment Tony had told him the news. The image of his fixed smile while standing next to the Easter Bunny would haunt him forever.

The country was losing its mind. And surely it was the unreality of it all that was making Dawson lose his mind and misunderstand what Joss was telling him, because his go-to expert on the ground could not possibly be telling him that that was the plan.

“Let me get this straight,” President Dawson said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’re facing a potentially cataclysmic event that could mean the lives of countless Americans and render nearly a third of the country uninhabitable for generations to come… and your plan is to send a fifty-year-old man whose only scuba training was on his honeymoon twenty years ago into a radioactive pool to underwater-weld—a dangerous, experience-based skill that he has absolutely no training in—a piece of sheet metal to the side of a wall.”

“That is correct, Mr. President.” Joss’s voice came through the speakerphone in the center of the table. “Our plan to stop a nuclear meltdown is to patch it like a pair of jeans.”

Joss held her sat phone to her ear and listened to the president while watching Steve and several of his firefighters gathered around one of Clover Hill’s emergency communications team’s satellite computers as some folks from the U.S. Navy gave them a crash course in underwater welding.

George would be the tender —the person on dry land who would turn the electricity on and off, a vital safeguard. Hot, cold —that’s what Steve would say to cue George for when to turn it on and off. The stinger —the handheld electrode holder, essentially the tool used to fuse the weld.

Each new vocab word and specialized device made the mission feel more audacious, and she was glad Dawson wasn’t there to witness it. If he was skeptical already, seeing it in action would have sent him into orbit.

But she’d mostly tuned him out a while back anyway, somewhere around the time he mentioned something about toilet paper. She didn’t give a damn about any of it. Markets in crisis. Misinformation on social media. Traffic accidents, riots, looting as the result of evacuations. None of these were her concerns and she could feel herself growing annoyed with what felt like a lecture from someone who was as safe as could be half the country away in an underground bunker.

“Well, you wouldn’t know any of that here,” Joss said. “We’re cut off. No one’s coming in, and most people can’t even head out. We’re just handling it.”

She described how the National Guard had arrived and how the local firefighters were finally able to take a seat and get a drink of water. She explained the virtual communications blackout and how they were using a CB radio system and retro technology to get information and directions out to the community—which made her think of Carla and wonder what she’d found going on at the church.

If Joss knew Waketans—and she did—they’d figured out a way to make something out of nothing, and she told Dawson as much. The president asked her what Waketa needed.

“I don’t know, get someone to United Grace Church and find out yourself,” she replied, frustrated. “I’m here. I’m at the plant. I’m not in Waketa any more than you are, Mr. President. I know they need help, but come here and ask them. Let them tell you what they need.”

The president was silent through all of that and didn’t have a response, and if she had to interpret what she didn’t hear, it’d be that he was impressed. Which made her proud. She was proud. This was what small-town America did. They handled it.

Joss could tell the welding lesson was wrapping up, which meant it was time for Steve to put on the gear and get the mission underway. Joss stood and began telling the president that, but he interrupted.

“Again, surely we can wait for someone, a professional welder, to get to you.”

“Mr. President, we’re moving to the pool now. This is happening now .”

“I’m worried it’s not safe, Dr. Vance.”

Joss blushed. Doctor . The word had no business sounding that good. Clearly, someone had revisited her file. “Then let me relieve you of your worries, Mr. President. You are correct. It’s not safe.”

“Mocking the president. You know, the FBI has been unleashed for less.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because you don’t want my answer for who my favorite president is to change.”

And with that, Joss hung up on the leader of the free world.

Dawson shut off the speaker, and the dial tone went away. At the end of the table, Tony pretended to read the papers in front of him while doing his best to hide a smirk. He glanced up and saw the president watching him.

“What?” said Dawson.

Tony raised his hands in surrender and went back to pretending to read. “I didn’t say a thing.”