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me—
    Female Voice #1:
Hello?
    Operator:
Hello. This is the nine-one-one operator. Are you hurt?
    Female Voice [crying]:
No. But something's wrong with my grandfather.
    Operator.
Okay, okay. Try to calm down, okay? Can you tell me if your address is Sixteen Michaels Drive?
    Female Voice [crying]:
No. Yes. I mean yes.
    Operator:
Okay. Someone is coming right now to help you. They should be there in just a minute. Can you tell me if anyone is there besides your grandfather? He called and said that there were strangers in your house.
    Female Voice [crying]:
I don't know. I don't think so.
    Operator:
Okay. And you aren't hurt?
    Female Voice [crying]:
No, but I think my grandfather is having a heart attack.
    Operator:
Okay. Someone will be right there.
    Female Voice:
Hurry.
    Automated Voice:
January 30. Two twenty-six A . M .
     

    CERTIFICATE

    I hereby certify that the foregoing record, consisting of two pages exclusive of this Certificate, is a true and complete transcription of the tape recording labeled “9–1–1 DPD Precinct 4, January 30, 2:24 A.M. ” and delivered to me by the Detroit Police Department.
         In witness whereof, I have hereunto set my hand …
         s/Regina Bedloe
     

    January 31—Air Force One

    “MR. PRESIDENT, WE'LL BE COMING UP ON lower Manhattan in just a minute or two. Should have a clear view out the left side of the plane.”
    “Thanks, Major,” Matt answered, hanging up the phone and getting up to take a look.
    Matt had specifically asked to have Air Force One's flight path changed so that he could see Ground Zero as they flew by. He made a point to see it every time he had a chance. To silently honor the sacrifice of those who died that day.
    Matt was familiar with sacrifice. Hell, every soldier who had ever done a tour in Vietnam was best friends with sacrifice. Matt's staff sergeant, José, called it scrubbing the outhouse. You didn't eat well, you didn't sleep well, you got sick, you got shot at, you got injured, and sometimes you even got killed.
    You were a soldier, you scrubbed the outhouse.
    But the tragedy of September 11 was different. Not just because so many of the victims were civilians, but because the losses went beyond the physical and emotional injuries suffered by thousands. Beyond the devastation of that part of the Manhattan skyline that Matt watched quietly as he flew past on his way to the U.N.
    America itself was a victim. The land of the free was now the land of the suspicious. It had been years since that horrible day, but personal freedoms were still far from where they'd been before 9/11.
    Of course, that was the way it had to be. It didn't make a hell of a lot of sense to pretend that things could just go on as they had before. Some of the changes that the government had made after the terrorist attacks were part of an extremely painful but very important process. It wasn't easy finding the right balance between vigilance and respecting personal privacy. But it was a cold fact of life in this new era that security from the kind of terror that was unleashed on September 11 was going to cost something. From long and slow lines at airports, to metal detectors at baseball games—baseball games, for God's sake—to inspections of car trunks at parking garages, to tougher immigration policies.
    Now everyone was scrubbing the outhouse. Everyone was sacrificing.
    “I know it will be a sacrifice for you, Colonel, to come out of retirement so soon, but this Monday, I'd like to announce you as my choice to replace Vice President Quarters. The Vice President will be resigning before the week is out.”
    Matt had been to Washington plenty of times while in the service, and he'd even been to the White House a few times—once to receive the medal, and once to meet with Vernon Browning about some testimony he was going to give to Congress on a couple of the military operations