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grid-down scenario, I suggested to the President DEFCON 3 was more appropriate. Although the Department of Defense maintains a public posture of normal readiness— fade out , as they prefer to say—our forces are prepared to operate at DEFCON 4 at all times. The entire military is maintaining above-normal readiness as a matter of protocol.”
    “Did the President provide a rationale for the special declaration of DEFCON 2 status?” asked Morgan. Morgan had his suspicions. The President is getting ahead of himself. Why ?
    “He did not, but he is my Commander-in-Chief. I will tell you that the Secretary of Defense disagreed with the status as well. But we’re both good soldiers, John. You know that.”
    “I do, Mason, which brings me to my point. Civilian communications networks are already failing. Our only means of contact will be through the use of my satellite phone. I will be available to you twenty-four seven during this crisis. I expect to hear from you daily or when something of importance arises. Are we clear?”
    “Of course, John,” replied General Sears. Morgan detected a sharp tone in the general’s response.
    “Mason, I am very concerned about my daughter’s welfare. I have no means of contacting her. I will be less surly when she is safe with me.”
    “John, I completely understand. My sons are both stationed abroad. We may be calling back our forces to protect American soil. These next few days will be stressful for us all.”
    “Yes, they will,” said Morgan. Lowe exited the car to approach the pilot who was standing ready. Morgan forced himself to relax. “Mason, the next several weeks will determine whether we can make this country great again. It is my hope that the President will share our vision. If not, well, you and I have discussed this ad nauseam. Thank you for your help, and keep me informed.”
    “Absolutely, John. My aide will generate the necessary clearances for your trip. Now go get your daughter.”
     

Chapter 7
    September 3, 2016
    9:49 p.m.
    Tucker Civic Center
    Downtown Tallahassee, Florida
     
    “Saddle up, troops,” barked Drew as he threw his gear in the backseat of the Suburban. Under standard protocol, the local law enforcement personnel provided the motorcade an escort. Typically, while in Florida, one highway patrol vehicle would travel several minutes ahead of the campaign convoy to assess any potential threats or traffic issues that would delay the vehicles from point to point. Under normal conditions, the motorcade would consist of a lead trooper, followed by a Secret Service Chevrolet Suburban from the local fleet, the two campaign buses and finally the USSS Electronic Countermeasures Suburban—the ECS.
    Once only used for the President’s travels, the ECS trailed the vice presidential vehicle and was used to counter attacks such as rocket-propelled grenades, vehicle-borne improvised explosive devices, and antitank guided missiles. Under the circumstances, the usual complement of Secret Service personnel and vehicles was unavailable. Drew had to make it work.
    “Ripley, you’re familiar with Florida more than the rest of us, so you’ll lead the way with Miss Jacobs and your partner,” said Drew. “Captain will ride with us. Cell phone connections seem to be unreliable and intermittent at best. We still have our two-way comms. Let’s use them sporadically to conserve battery power. Everybody clear?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Drew opened the back door of the SUV on the passenger side for Abbie. She was outfitted in a black velour tracksuit with a silver J dangling from its zipper.
    “You know I hate that codename,” said Abbie, stopping Drew from rushing her into the back of the truck.
    “What? Captain?” asked Drew.
    “Yes. Come on. Captain Morgan? Give me a break. Shall I strike a pose with one leg up on a rum barrel?”
    “It could be worse, Captain ,” said Drew sarcastically. “You know what the guys call your running mate?”
    “What?”
    “Hilla