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my daughter?” asked the President.
    “We still haven’t been able to make contact with her security detail,” answered Moore. He knew firsthand how fragile the relationship was between Hamilton and his daughter.
    “Find her, please!”
    Moore was impressed at how the President managed to retain control, all things considered. He was grateful not to be the President today. “Yes sir. I’ve dispatched men to the ski resort that she’s supposed to be staying at in Vail. We should know more within the hour.”
    John Hamilton had spent most of his adult life wanting to be President of the United States, but this was not the Presidency that he’d dreamed of. His illusions of what it meant to be President had been shattered from the beginning. He had always hoped to lead the country back to its former glory, but plans had been put into action long ago, that could not be changed. Not even by the President.
    “Mr. President?” The tension in Benson’s voice was enough to pull Hamilton away from his thoughts.
    “Yes, what is it?” asked Hamilton, refocusing on the current dilemma, hoping it couldn’t get any worse.
    “I asked you what you’re orders are sir?”
    “Where’s Vice President Whitfield?” asked Hamilton, reaching into the humidor on his desk and withdrawing a Cuban cigar. He cut off the end and bit down firmly. Removing a book of matches from within his desk he lit the cigar and slowly puffed on it while trying to figure out what the best course of action would be. The sweet aroma filled the room as he exhaled the smoke and leaned back in his chair.
    “He’s onboard Air Force Two, in-route to Colorado Springs,” replied Moore. “They should arrive at Peterson Air Force Base within the hour.”
    “Let’s just hope NORAD hasn’t been hit,” grumbled Hamilton, glancing at the enlarged map of the United States on the wall of his office.
    “The Command Center is far enough beneath the ground that it should still be intact regardless,” stated five star General Michael Williams, sitting on the plush sofa facing the President’s desk.
    The President noticed the calm expression on the General’s face. Unlike the rest of Hamilton’s staff, he didn’t appear worried, he seemed pleased. In fact he almost seemed excited by what was happening.
    Does he think this is a game? Is he really having fun?
    “I want to know the second the V.P. is safe inside the bunker,” demanded Hamilton.
    Vice President George Whitfield was a true patriot and lifelong friend of Hamilton. They’d fought together in the deserts of Iraq and stood by one another as best men at each other’s wedding ceremonies. George had even named Hamilton as godfather to his eldest son David, who was now serving onboard the U.S.S. Abraham Lincoln out of Norfolk, Virginia.
    Hamilton wished that Whitfield was here with him now. The older man had always exuded a sense of confidence that made Hamilton feel calm, even in times of crisis. But the Secret Service had rules to follow and allowing both the President and Vice President onboard the same aircraft would have been a huge violation of protocol.
    “Mr. President?” Secretary of State Reese Lewis entered the office, with a worried look on his face.
    “What is it Lewis?”
    “There’s an urgent call from Air Force Two.”
    Hamilton glanced down at the phone on his desk. It was lit up with several blinking red lights. He picked up the receiver. “Which line?”
    “Line two Mr. President.”
    “This is Hamilton,” he said into the receiver, with the cigar clenched between his teeth.
    “Hello John,” said the broken voice of Vice President Whitfield. “I’m glad to hear your voice. Where are you?”
    “Somewhere over Virginia,” answered Hamilton. “We should be in Colorado in a few hours.”
    “Be careful on your way here,” warned Whitfield. “We’ve been fired upon twice by surface-to-air-missiles. The last one nearly got us.”
    “What? Who’s firing at you?”
    “I