General J. Jerome McKnight, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, lowered himself into the passenger seat of his vehicle. He slammed the door shut without waiting for the car to do it for him, then ordered it to head straight to the White House. McKnight hated not being able to drive himself; even if he could override the AI that controlled the car, the damn car didn’t even have a steering wheel. He grunted and settled into his seat, his stiff joints reminding him he needed to lose weight.

McKnight surveyed the passing streets through the tinted bulletproof windows. The streets were deserted at this hour, but McKnight’s eyes still scanned the environment for signs of unusual activity. Years of training and combat had made vigilance second nature for Jerome McKnight.

Containment and control were the principal priorities at this moment. The first priority was to quarantine Strauss. Out of sight. Even Strauss would agree that he might be contagious or carrying some other disease. This would serve the dual purpose of keeping Strauss from view. His condition needed to be kept from the media at all costs. Without adequate preparation, news that Strauss was gray would lead to mass panic about a fresh wave of the epidemic, or about a terrorist attack. The country could afford neither.

The President’s Press Secretary, Nisa Choudhry, had been hysterical when she’d called, and nearly impossible to understand through her histrionics. Stupidly, Strauss had called her before calling him, but at least she’d done the right thing and called McKnight next. He’d told her not to breathe a word to anyone and to go directly to the Crisis room.

Two likely culprits for the bioterror attack immediately stood out: China and Russia. The level of sophistication required for such a targeted strike immediately disqualified lone wolves or splinter cells as culprits. It was not impossible for a well-funded terrorist organization to pull it off, but realistically, the intelligence required for such a strike needed a nation state behind it. China and Russia would have access to the biotech and labs needed to mimic and accelerate the graying mutation. He’d warned three presidents that if the United States didn’t weaponize the virus, somebody else would. None of them listened; there was always some more pressing budget item. And now here they were, sitting ducks, with no idea of how to turn the virus on or off.

McKnight’s car stopped at a red light, even though the streets were totally empty. He hated to wait, but you couldn’t order a military vehicle to run a light without alerting half the Pentagon. And secrecy was of utmost importance at this moment.

He waited for the light to turn, drumming his fingers on the elbow rest.

McKnight had seen everything in his 40-year military career: wars, riots, terror attacks, natural disasters. There was not a more qualified person than himself to be Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, especially now that the Migration was at hand. Everyone around Washington and the Pentagon knew this, and it would have been a stupid political move for Strauss not to tap McKnight for the role. So, despite their mutual animosity, Strauss had appointed him.

He neither liked nor respected this new President, with his Ivy League airs and his soft policies on crime. But McKnight was a reasonable man, and he gave credit to Strauss for coming up with the idea of the Underground Cities. Strauss had, in fact, ridden it all the way to the White House. The basic concept was simple enough—carve cities inside the Appalachians and the Rockies, then move the public inside before everyone burned or drowned on the surface. He’d been pitching the idea for decades, but as it became increasingly clear that the climate collapse was inevitable, Strauss’s Cities emerged as the only viable option. The other competing choice had been to send small colonies of people into deep space—nobody knew where or for how long—and leave everyone else to die. Strauss came out of it looking like the champion and savior of the people.

But despite Strauss’s We’ll-All-Make-It-Together, kumbaya crap, McKnight knew there was simply not enough time or bots to build enough cities. And McKnight had seen the raw savagery people were capable of to survive. They would rip each other apart to get into the cities. The situation was now a powder keg just waiting for a spark.

That spark, McKnight knew, was the gargoyles. The gargs brought filth, disease, and crime with them, and every one of them was going to take up space and resources. Even more resources, in fact, given that they needed to be constantly policed. Strauss was deluding himself about any option of finding space for the gargoyles in the Cities. Decisions needed to be made about who was going to be relocated, and if Strauss didn’t make them, Jerome McKnight sure as hell would make sure the military did.

“Call the Vice President,” McKnight ordered the car as the light turned green. “Secure line.” McKnight knew that Vice President Guerra would agree with him. Before Strauss, Guerra had campaigned on finally finding an antidote for the virus, and for making the gargs get it whether they wanted it or not. But once Guerra got on the ticket as VP, Strauss had changed Guerra’s platform into some pussy-footed promise to offer the gargs a choice of whether to take the antidote. Bullshit. McKnight knew where Guerra really stood. Call it an intuition, but McKnight felt the Vice President wasn’t a fervent Gargoyle fan.

Guerra would also agree that at this precarious juncture in humanity’s history, the country needed a true Commander-in-Chief, a leader to look up to. And that person could not be a garg, as Strauss had sadly now become.

A blue dot appeared in front of McKnight, which then expanded into a screen. It rang twice, three times. A shirtless, disheveled Guerra finally answered. Next to him, an equally disheveled blonde looked into the camera with sleepy eyes, then turned away and covered her head with a pillow.

“Mr. Vice President,” McKnight said, “Code 35. Now.” Without waiting for an answer, McKnight hung up. He did not like it that over the years, voters stopped caring whether their President and Vice President were married. For McKnight, it was a security risk, a chance for information to leak to those with no business hearing it and no formal ties to keep them in line. The bimbo had been too sleepy to have heard or cared, but McKnight had kept his message short and coded all the same.

The need for Strauss to now step aside because of his condition should be self-evident. He hoped Strauss would cooperate, but McKnight had not built his career on the hopes that people chose the right path. He’d succeed by preparing for when they chose the wrong one. And to prepare for such a contingency, he needed a soldier who would execute McKnight’s orders as instructed, no questions asked.

There was only one choice for such a soldier: Alexander Bennett. McKnight had groomed Alexander precisely for this type of situation. He’d made sure Alexander got combat prep, black ops training, as well as the highest levels of security clearances. McKnight had made certain that Alexander knew that without McKnight, he’d be nothing. Alexander owed McKnight his education and his green beret, especially since Alexander had not exactly aced his trainings. McKnight had greased a few wheels to get Alexander through. Now the time had come for McKnight to get his return on investment. Alexander would not question McKnight’s authority, even if ordered to step outside the law for the security of the nation.

Alexander was the only other person who needed to be in the Crisis Room this morning.

“Call Alexander Bennett. Secure line.”

Bennett answered on the first ring. On the screen, he was already in uniform.

“Sir,” Bennett said.

“We’ve got a Code 35. Activate level 5 monitoring of Chinese and Russian communications about the President. Then get your ass to the Crisis Room. I’m on my way now.”

Bennett’s expression did not change. He only nodded once, and the camera went dark.

McKnight had taught Alexander well: show no emotion, don’t speak unnecessarily, and don’t question your superiors.