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wait for the power to be restored,” she said. “It’s too dangerous to travel in a blackout.”
    “Hu, my love, this isn’t a blackout. Can’t you see? Nothing is functioning here,” he said, gesturing around the deathly still residence. “The residence is on backup battery power, but nothing works.”
    She stared at him, still not grasping what he was trying to say.
    “This is a retaliatory EMP attack. It all makes sense now. The trade restrictions, bogus underground news reports, travel bans—they’ve been keeping us in the dark. Ha! Did you hear that? In the dark. Now we’re really in the dark,” he said, laughing.
    He was starting to sound crazy again. Huan backed up slowly, bumping into an end table and knocking over a lamp. The room brightened momentarily, an orange fireball fading on the southwest horizon. They ran to the window together, pressing against the cold panel. Something big had exploded on the outskirts of Pudong. The metal chandelier above them rattled, followed by a vibration through the floor and glass. She recoiled from the glass, feeling completely exposed twenty-two hundred feet above the ground.
    “I better wake the kids,” she said.
    “I’ll take an inventory of our food and supplies. We won’t be able to carry much,” said Wei.
    “What do we tell the kids?” said Huan.
    “We’re going on a bike trip. That’s all,” he said, lowering his voice to finish. “A bike trip as far away from the city as possible.”
     

“The New Caliphate”
     

Chapter 10
    Headquarters of the Home Office
    London, United Kingdom
     
    Michael Atlee tightened his royal blue tie and examined his thick brown hair in the full-length mirror in his private bathroom. Impeccable. He was scheduled to meet with the Prime Minister at 10 Downing Street in a half-hour—just a five-minute car ride away. Unfortunately, the security procedures required to transport him one bloody kilometer could last twenty minutes. He could walk there in less time, which wasn’t a bad idea. A little fresh air might do him some good.
    Atlee still felt flush, his heart racing at the prospect of the sudden request for an audience. The mass emigration had finally drawn enough attention to warrant a cabinet meeting to discuss a strategy. He had his own opinion on the matter, but he’d wait to see what the “decision makers” had to say. So far, the Home Office had simply tracked and observed the growing trend, reporting the details to the Prime Minister’s office.
    He opened the bathroom door and stepped inside his spacious, modernist office, hoping to review a few emails before his security detail arrived. A knock at the door stopped him before he reached the desk. He hated when they came for him early. A few minutes shaved off his day, here and there, landed him woefully behind schedule. Glancing at his watch, he sighed.
    “Come in,” said Atlee, the door opening immediately. “I was just—”
    Two men he instantly recognized stepped inside and closed the door. David Wilson, Deputy Prime Minister, and the Right Honorable Malcom Straw, Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs, both senior Cabinet members like himself. Something was seriously amiss to draw two of the most powerful government figures in the United Kingdom out of their offices—unannounced.
    “Gentlemen, please,” he said, gesturing to the Scandinavian-style furniture surrounding an art deco coffee table. “Shall I have Mary bring tea?”
    Malcom Straw consulted his watch. “I would suggest something stronger, if it weren’t ten thirty in the morning.”
    “Let’s not cross the possibility off the list,” said the Deputy Prime Minister, cocking an eyebrow. “Sorry to ambush you like this, Michael, but we thought it might be best to put some…distance between 10 Downing and our conversation.”
    Atlee strode to the cherry-top bar cabinet behind the dark yellow leather couch.
    “Sounds like we could all use a nip, if this