‘This blast-proof room exists mainly to protect the elevators,’ Whitfield said.
As they entered the elevator, Pauline quickly lost the impatient sense that she was engaged in an exercise that was barely necessary. This began to feel portentous.
Whitfield said: ‘With your permission, Madam President, we’ll go all the way down and work our way back up.’
‘That will be fine, thank you, general.’
As the elevator descended, he said proudly: ‘Ma’am, this facility offers you one hundred per cent protection if the United States should suffer any of the following: a pandemic or plague; a natural disaster such as a large meteorite hitting the Earth; riot and major civil disorder; a successful invasion by conventional military forces; cyberattack; or nuclear war.’
If this list of potential catastrophes was meant to reassure Pauline, it failed. It reminded her that the end of civilization was possible and she might have to shelter in this hole in the ground so that she could try to save a remnant of the human race.
She thought she might prefer to die on the surface.
The elevator was falling fast and seemed to go a long way down before slowing. When at last it stopped, Whitfield said: ‘In case of elevator trouble, there is a staircase.’
It was a witticism, and the younger members of the party laughed, thinking about how many steps there might be; but Pauline remembered how long it had taken people to descend the stairs in the burning World Trade Center, and she did not crack a smile. Nor did Gus, she noticed.
The walls were painted restful green, soothing creamy-white and relaxing pale pink, but it was still an underground bunker. The creepy feeling remained with her as she was shown the Presidential Suite, the barracks with lines of cots, the hospital, gym, cafeteria and supermarket.
The Situation Room was a replica of the one in the basement of the White House, with a long table down the centre and chairs at the sides for aides. There were large screens on the walls. ‘We can provide all the visual data you get at the White House, and just as fast,’ Whitfield said. ‘We can look at any city in the world by hacking into traffic cameras and security surveillance. We get military radar in real time. Satellite photos take a couple of hours to reach the Earth, as you know, but we get them at the same time as the Pentagon. We can pick up any television station, which can be useful on those rare occasions when CNN or Al-Jazeera get a story before the security services. And we will have a team of linguists to provide instant subtitles for news programmes in foreign languages.’
The facilities floor had a power plant with a diesel fuel reservoir the size of a lake, a heating and cooling system, and a five-million-gallon water tank fed by an underground spring. Pauline was not particularly claustrophobic, but she felt stifled by the idea of being stuck in here while the world outside was devastated. She became conscious of her own breathing.
As if reading her mind, Whitfield said: ‘Our air supply comes in from outside through a set of blast filters that, as well as resisting explosion damage, will capture airborne contaminants, whether chemical, biological or radioactive.’
Fine, Pauline thought, but what about the millions of people on the surface who would have no protection?
At the end of the tour Whitfield said: ‘Madam President, your office indicated that you would not wish to have lunch before leaving, but we have prepared something in case you should change your mind.’
This always happened. Everyone liked the idea of an hour or so of informal conversation with the president. She felt a pang of sympathy for Whitfield, stuck underground in this important but unseen post, but she had to repress this urge as always and stick to her timetable.
Pauline rarely wasted time eating with people other than her family. She held meetings at which information was exchanged and decisions were made, then she moved on to the next meeting. She had slashed the number of formal banquets the president attended. ‘I’m the leader of the free world,’ she had said. ‘Why would I spend three hours talking to the King of Belgium?’
Now she said: ‘That’s very kind of you, general, but I have to get back to the White House.’
Back in the helicopter she fastened her seat belt then took from her pocket a plastic container the size of a small wallet or billfold. This was known as the Biscuit. It could be opened only by breaking the plastic. Inside was a card with a series of letters and numbers: the codes for authorizing a nuclear attack. The president had to carry the Biscuit all day and keep it beside the bed all night.
Gus saw what she was doing and said: ‘Thank heaven the Cold War is over.’