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slowness.
    TV news reports from the stadium were broadcast live across the city. What had begun as a routine weekend sports broadcast became a shocking real-life horror story. People spilled from the nearby buildings and ran panicked into the streets. Cars jammed the roads. Families overloaded the cellular phone networks and landlines to call friends and relatives. People frantically packed memories of their lives and weapons and blankets into their vehicles, and choked the highways. There were thousands of traffic accidents. Cars collided and caught on fire. The sky began to fill with smoke. Buildings burned down and power poles went crashing to the ground, cutting electricity to large sections of the city.
    It was Sunday.
    Bloody Sunday.
    The day America died.
     
     
     
    TEHRAN.
     
    The young man came into the conference room of the underground bunker and bowed deeply and respectfully. The Ayatollah greeted the man with a kindly inner peace touching at his lips.
    “It is done,” the young man said as he straightened. He handed the Ayatollah a piece of paper. “It is the beginning of the end for the Great Satan.”
    The Ayatollah cast his eyes to the heavens…
    And he smiled.

Thirteen months later…
     
    PART 1: ‘OPERATION CONTAINMENT’
    The Interviews…
     
     
     
    NATIONAL SECURITY COUNCIL MEETING ROOM, THE WHITE HOUSE:
     
    Richard Danvers, the architect of the Emergency Homeland Defense Plan, was a tall man with a lean and wiry frame that bristled with a kind of restless energy. I guessed him to be in his sixties. He had a long, drawn face that was darkly tanned and a close-cropped head of grey hair. His eyes were sharp and penetrating, set amongst a fine web of wrinkles. He sat back in a chair near the end of the long wooden table and regarded me carefully.
    “Take a seat,” the man gruffed. I had the feeling he was resentful. He watched me like a hawk, his eyes drawn to the folders and notebooks I had in my hands.
    “No recording devices,” Danvers warned. “I’m giving you this interview because our Commander In Chief has ordered me to, but you’re not leaving here with anything on tape.”
    I frowned, sat down across the table and fixed him with a stare. “That’s not how I understood this interview would be conducted,” I said.
    Danvers’s expression never changed. His features seemed carved out of stone. He leaned forward slowly and propped his elbows on the polished wooden tabletop. “I don’t give a shit,” he said mildly. “That’s how it’s going to happen. I talk, you write, Mr. Culver. No recording.”
    “Sure,” I said. I flipped to a new page in my notebook and snatched a pen from my pocket. Danvers sat back in his chair and swiveled, casting his eyes around the room.
    The subterranean meeting room below the White House looked oddly colonial. The low ceiling was elaborately molded, the dark wood wall panels divided by arrays of multimedia screens and maps of the world. The lighting was subdued. It was quite a small room, dominated by the big table we sat on opposite sides of. There was a pitcher of ice water on the table, and a couple of tall glasses.
    Danvers waited until he was quite sure I was settled and then steepled his fingers together like a high-powered corporate executive. He narrowed his eyes.
    “Tell me what you want to know,” he said warily.
    I sighed. I actually didn’t know where to start. I shrugged. “Why are we meeting here, at the White House?” I asked.
    Danvers smiled, but it was a bleak, grim expression devoid of any humor. “It’s where I was first handed the job of coordinating America’s response to the outbreak of the zombie virus,” he said. He sat back and the leather chair squeaked as he shifted his weight. “The President sat in that seat right there,” he pointed to the chair at the head of the table, “and called me over.”
    “Over?”
    Danvers nodded. “I was in the room. It was a crisis meeting of the National Security