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their patrol has disappeared to,” an elderly man said. “They will come for their soldiers.”
    “We must go to Indian Northern Command,” another villager said. “Before it’s too late.”

5
    OVAL OFFICE
    THE WHITE HOUSE
    WASHINGTON, D.C.
    The two seven-foot-long chesterfield sofas had been custom-made in England. They were identical leather sofas that faced each other and were each big enough to accommodate three people comfortably. The light tan sofas were manufactured by a company called George Smith and cost $65,000 apiece, an expense covered by a fund set up three administrations ago to pay for renovations and various projects around the White House. President Allaire’s wife, Reagan, had selected them herself. She did not live to see the finished product, but as with everything she did, there was understated perfection and beauty to them.
    This morning, and every morning at 7:15 A.M. , each sofa had three individuals on them, members of the president’s national security team, here for the daily briefing of security flash points around the world. The briefing was run by Jessica Tanzer, the national security advisor. Also present were Bill Winter, the director of the FBI; Harry Black, the secretary of defense; John Nova, secretary of Homeland Security; Hector Calibrisi, director of the CIA; Piper Redgrave, director of the National Security Agency; and Jeffrey Elm, director of National Intelligence.
    In the opening at the end of the sofas, a pair of light blue Federal wing chairs held two more individuals, Retired Admiral Tim Lindsay, the U.S. secretary of state, and President Rob Allaire, who on this morning seemed temporarily distracted by the snow that fell in thick white flakes outside the glass-paned French doors that led to the Rose Garden, just outside the Oval Office. The president stared at the endless panes of glass as the snow drifted down, his thoughts temporarily leaving the room as he looked into the distance. Everyone knew the president had stopped paying attention. Everyone knew why too. All eight attendees of the briefing understood that when a man loses his wife to cancer, at such a young age, it’s going to tear you away, even from a discussion as critical as this.
    As usual these past few weeks, it was the youngest member of the president’s national security directorate, the only person in the room who had never been married, Jessica Tanzer, who brought the president back around.
    “Mr. President,” said Jessica. “We’re almost done here. I’d like to discuss Canada, Pakistan, and Iran. These are the only open points left.”
    President Allaire turned from the window. A smile was on his face. Not the kind of smile that a man has when he is happy. Rather, it was the smile of someone who is among friends, when he knows that they know something is wrong, when he knows they know, furthermore, that he needs their help, support, friendship, and they give it to him, in this case by remaining silent as he drifts away from arguably the most important meeting anywhere on earth, taking a moment to think about his dead wife.
    “Yes, Jess,” said the president, returning. “Canada. Let’s get to Canada, eh. What have those crazy bastards done now?”
    The room erupted in laughter as the president leaned forward to pick up his coffee cup.
    “Keep it brief,” said Jessica, looking at John Nova, the secretary of Homeland Security. “We need to spend some time on Islamabad this morning.”
    “Will do,” said Nova. “This is a quick update. As everyone knows, we completed the border protocol last week. Intercountry penetration tests; random, urban-rural, scenario-based. The Canadians failed virtually everything. They managed to flag some altered passports in Montreal, Ottawa, Edmonton, but that was it. Frankly, if Hezbollah and Al-Qaeda didn’t hate the cold so much we’d be in serious trouble. Anyway, we’re dealing with that.”
    “How?” asked the president. “We’ve spent how much