An elderly man lay contorted behind the pedestal base of the Thomas Jefferson statue, his dead green eyes open, his face drained of all color.

“My fellow Americans, intelligence sources suggest this was a cowardly attempt to disrupt your federal government and send the Homeland into anarchy.”

Disheveled and weary, President Curtis “Brushfire” Cox read the prepared statement into the cameras in a somber tone. He had wanted to ride out the last few months of his term in office without any more crises. He’d had enough of national emergencies and international incidents and natural disasters the previous eight years. There was always some calamity underway. He wondered why he had ever run for this impossible, thankless job. After the first year or two, it wasn’t fun or rewarding anymore; that was certain. He’d gladly hand the whole mess over to King or Carp right now; it wouldn’t matter to him which one. He didn’t give a rat’s ass for either of them. He would retire, write his memoirs, and get paid handsomely for delivering short speeches to chambers of commerce and trade associations. Maybe he could serve on a few corporate boards or head up a charity or something. Life would be good again.

Donning reading glasses and getting down to business, he peered down at the statement placed on the desk before him.

“The terrorist threat that led to the declaration on September 14, 2001, of a national emergency, continues. For this reason, I have determined that it is necessary to continue in effect the national emergency with respect to the terrorist threat.”

He looked up with tired eyes. The backdrop was not the usual plush office setting staged for such events. It more resembled a bunker or a command post.

“You can rest assured that essential government services will go forward. They tell me we’re at COGCON 1. All mission-critical functionality is now deploying from the Mount Weather Emergency Operations Center. That includes senior officials from every federal department as well as all your congressional leaders. Your federal government will continue to deliver exceptional service.”

He went on to say that this was an isolated incident, not part of any real pattern, and that he expected normal operations would resume in a week or so once everything had been cleaned up.

In contrast to the bleak mood at Mount Weather, people in parts of the Middle East celebrated in the streets. Masked men shot AK-47 rifles into the air with one hand, to the delight of the revelers. Boys looking barely 10 years old, sporting green bandanas and track suits, flourished play rifles and toy rocket-propelled grenade launchers. A grizzled man flashing a gap-toothed smile waved a small sign up and down and back and forth, trying to attract the attention of the foreign television cameras. Scribbled in English, it read “helo form yor partanor in peas.” These and similar events quickly vanished from the major newscasts.

Professional commentators deliberated the deeper meaning of these spontaneous festivities. Were they demonstrating against postcolonial social injustice? Or could it be the emotional outpouring of peoples born of a common heritage spanning more than a thousand years? Maybe, they suggested, we couldn’t make sense of it through the myopic lens of Western culture. It could even be that there were no simple answers readily at hand. But Benson knew the meaning of their exuberance. It was clear enough for anyone with half a brain; Joseph King had already spelled it out in plain language, had he not? They hate our freedom of religion, he had said compellingly, our freedom of speech, our freedom to vote and assemble and disagree with each other. New enemies call for new tactics, he’d added. Surely it couldn’t be that hard to grasp.

The ambassador for Babur’s country appeared in a televised ceremony at St. Anthony’s Cathedral in New York. He called out for understanding and acceptance; collaboration, not isolation.