He stepped through the doorway and felt the cold metal of a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver press into his right cheek. “Drop to the ground,” a voice said. “Don’t do nothin’ stupid.”
If the timber of the old security guard’s voice hadn’t given away his age, then the choice of weapon would have. The .38 was an old-timer’s weapon. A police sidearm in an era before steroids, genetically modified food and seven-foot-tall athletes made bigger criminals that required bigger weapons. Pawn shops across America were full of them.
“I’m a federal agent,” Carver said. “ID’s in my pocket. Go ahead. Take a look.”
The rent-a-cop seemed even less comfortable with the situation than Carver was. “If you was a federal agent,” he said nervously, “then you wouldn’t need to be creepin’ around my archive room, now wouldja?”
Carver didn’t have time for this. He had tried it the easy way. “I surrender,” Carver said. “Don’t shoot. I’m going to put my wrists behind my back so you can cuff me.”
As the old timer stepped back to give his subject some room, Carver used his superior hand speed to strike him on the forearm, knocking the revolver out of his grip and onto the floor. The old man came at him, swinging with a series of roundhouse punches. Carver kicked his overmatched opponent in the solar plexus – just hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He casually picked up the revolver, opened the magazine and emptied the shells into his pocket.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Carver said. “I really am a federal agent. You all alone here?” The guard nodded. “Come on. I need some help.”
Carver ushered the old-timer back through the archive room, where Speers, Eva and Angie Jackson were waiting at the tunnel entrance with the cold, stiff corpses of Meagan O’Keefe and Chris Abrams at their feet. To Carver’s horror, O’Keefe’s body was contorted with rigor mortis, bent at the elbows and the waist. Hardly the picture of eternal peace.
The old-timer went pale at the sight of the ladies. “You’re supposed to be dead,” he stammered as he pointed a bony finger at them.
The Pentagon
10:49 a.m.
On any other day, Haley Ellis would not have had to make excuses for leaving the NMCC. Her job allowed her to come and go freely from the most sensitive security areas in the federal government. But today was unlike any other day. If Wainewright had authorized deadly force on civilians violating curfew on the streets of Washington, he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot dissenters within the Pentagon.
She grimaced and groaned, just loud enough to be noticed by the communications staffer at the next workstation. She held her stomach for several moments, resumed working briefly, then hunched over again. “Maybe something I ate,” she explained as she rose from her workstation and headed for the exit en route to the ladies’ room. She left her attaché as proof that she was coming back.
Ellis took the elevators to the DC Metro level and sprinted as fast as she could in designer flats. She arrived at the platform just as the Orange Line whisked into the station. She stepped on board, nearly out of breath, peering out the windows to make sure she wasn’t followed. Ellis took a good look as the subway pulled away from the station, knowing it could be the last time.
She stood for the eight-and-a-half minutes until they reached Farragut West Station. The platform was nearly empty. A lone Ulysses MP with a German Shepherd stood near the ticket booth. He seemed to be paying more attention to two young girls in hot pants than anything else. Ellis stepped on the escalator and dialed the NIC Director as she ascended toward the street. “Please answer,” she said aloud. “Answer, answer, answer.”
“It’s Hummel,” the Director said into the line. “Hold on.”
“This can’t wait,” she blurted out.
It was a five-minute walk from Farragut West to the Eisenhower Building on 17th Street NW, where she had been assigned a small office for the past year. It was said that the building represented a symbolic – if not geographical – halfway point between the White House and the Pentagon. In truth, the location was a strategic move by the White House to keep NIC observers close and minimize the risk that they might be compromised or influenced by the Pentagon brass.
On a street that was crawling with Ulysses troops, two gum-chewing MPs were posted squarely in front of the building’s front entrance. To Ellis’ eye, they were in their late teens or early twenties. Something in their eyes – she had learned to recognize it, but had yet to name it – told her that they had never been in combat.
She held out her credentials. “Senior Pentagon Liaison. Third floor.”
The MPs shook their heads. “Lady, nobody’s been in this building since Sunday,” the taller one said.
“You’re wrong,” Haley said. “There was a security breach last night at seven thirty-five p.m. Check the logs if you don’t believe me.” Ellis had already seen the incident log describing how a Ulysses unit had been sent into the building to pursue Julian Speers.
The shorter MP stopped chewing his gum. “How’d you know that?”
“It’s my job. I need access to my office. It’s a matter of national security.”
The shorter MP turned his body sideways to let Ellis pass.
The building was completely empty, just as the MPs said it would be.
Ellis did not in fact go to her office. She instead pushed the second floor button, where the Secret Service had a small satellite presence, and swiped her badge to get onto the secured floor. In ten more paces, she came to another set of doors where she swiped her badge again.
Agent Rios’ cramped, windowless office was sandwiched between two kitchens in a room that had once held the building’s network servers. Ellis slipped her fingers under Rios’ middle desk drawer, groping for the hidden key that Rios kept to the Secret Service weapons locker. The locker was located just outside Rios’ office, and had been established some decades earlier to give the Secret Service an area to rearm in the unthinkable event that the White House was overrun by invaders.
The unthinkable was happening. Ellis opened the locker and took an M4 carbine and some ammunition from the rack. The last time she had held an M4, a car bomb exploded in a Ramadi market. It was 2006, her last day in Iraq. When the medics found her, a piece of the car’s fractured radiator was lodged in her hip. Thanks to Director Hummel and a convincing doctor at Walter Reed, she never returned to combat duty.
Until today. She reached back into the weapons locker and took a rifle scope, a pair of binoculars and a satellite radio. She gathered them in her arms and headed for the roof. The high ground, she remembered. Always take the high ground.
The Lincoln Memorial
11:14 a.m.
A Methodist minister – a portly, pink-faced man with a Mississippi drawl – stepped up to the Inaugural Podium. Behind him, Chief Justice Dillinger stood alongside Dex Jackson, General Farrell and an entire row of Ulysses executives. Thousands of citizens huddled on the National Mall, peering into tiny phones carrying the broadcast. Thousands more stood along Constitution Avenue alongside legions of Ulysses soldiers.
“Let us pray,” the Minister began in a loud, booming voice that echoed over the public address system as if he himself was a deity. His message was uncharacteristically succinct for an inaugural prayer. He asked the Almighty for guidance and wisdom. He asked that Dexter Adams Jackson be blessed in his endeavor to lead the country. And he asked that God begin an era of healing. Amen.
As tentative applause rose up the crowd, Chief Justice Dillinger took his place at the podium. It was time. General Farrell leaned into Dex’s ear and spoke just low enough not to be heard by the VIPs around him. “Fifteen minutes from now you’ll be with your son. Don’t blow it.”
“Secretary Jackson,” Dillinger said into the microphone, “Come forth and place your hand upon the Bible.”
Dex approached the podium as if it were a gallows. He lifted his right hand into the air, flattened it, and slowly, slowly, lowered it. The SECDEF found that difficult. He had been a
member of the Church of God in Christ throughout his entire life. Until college, he had believed that the entire Bible was the literal word of God, and even now he believed that much of it had been channeled through Jesus. Forgive me, he thought as his hand slowly came into contact with the leather dust jacket.
The crowd let out a long gasp that slowly mushroomed into scattered applause. Justice Dillinger’s white eyebrows arched into boomerang shapes. Dex turned to look behind him. He could not believe his eyes.
Eva Hudson – her clothes shockingly muddied and wet – walked barefoot in front of the DOD brass. As the cameras zoomed in on her, it was evident that the World’s Sexiest Fed wore no makeup and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Agent Carver walked slightly in front of her, clearing a path.
Just behind them, Speers and the old timer accompanied Angie Jackson toward the front. Her eyes were fixed on some faraway point and she was mumbling.
They moved quickly by design. By the time General Farrell caught a glimpse of Eva through the crowd and moved to block their path, there were only 10 feet between Eva and the podium. Carver opened his jacket to reveal his SIG. Farrell backed off. The Ulysses MPs were both too far away and too confused to intervene. Dex stepped off the podium and gazed stupidly at his wife.
To Dillinger’s horror, Eva leaned toward the microphone and began speaking into it for the thousands in attendance to hear.
“Your Honor,” she started in a shaky voice that grew more confident, “CENTCOM has confirmed that the President, the Vice President, the Speaker of the House and the Senate President Pro Tem are all deceased, God rest their souls. The Secretary of State, who I presume to be still alive, is foreign-born and therefore ineligible for the office of Chief Executive. Therefore, under the terms of the Succession Act, I respectfully request that you swear me in as the next President of the United States.”
PART V
The Pentagon
11:19 a.m.
General Wainewright had never given much thought to what it would be like to come down on the wrong side of history. But as he stood in the NMCC and watched his carefully laid plans unravel on live television, he realized that there was something even worse than tactical failure: letting the left-wing historians demonize him as an enemy of the state.
The room monitors displayed a life-size Eva Hudson standing in Dex’s place at the inauguration. None of the Ulysses MPs lifted a finger to stop her. Wainewright’s bloodshot eyes turned to the communications staff. “The HVTs are on camera! Take them out!” he shouted at nobody in particular. All activity in the room stopped. Every head turned. “What part of conspiracy to assassinate the President don’t you people understand?”
“Sir,” one of the senior staffers said quietly. The man stood up. He had a face like a pancake and two protruding glossy orbs for eyes. “The Ulysses field commander has refused the order.”
“Then tell him who’s giving it.”
“I’ve done that, sir. He has responded by saying, and I quote, he needs to hear it from the CEO.” The staffer stepped back, as if fearing that Wainewright’s reddening face might explode.
“Get me Jeff Taylor,” he demanded. If the Ulysses troops wouldn’t take a direct order, then he would get the company’s CEO to intervene.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” the staffer stammered. “NIC Director Hummel and Deputy Homeland Security Director Davis are entering the Pentagon as we speak. They would like to assess the situation before any further orders are taken.”
“Like hell they are! I’m in charge here! Somebody get Jeff Taylor on the phone!”
Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. Wainewright felt suddenly naked in front of the men. He wiped a layer of perspiration from his forehead, unfastened his holster, drew his .45 automatic and switched the weapon off safety.
“Hit the deck!” someone shouted. The staff dove under desks and workstations. Except for the senior staffer, who closed his eyes and awaited the inevitable. But Wainewright did not shoot him. With the gun in one hand and Lincoln’s opera glasses in the other, the General opened the blast doors and exited to the waiting elevator.
He waited for the elevator doors to close, then swiped his security badge and pressed the elevator’s HOLD button. Alone at last. He needed to catch his breath. He inhaled deeply and tried to clear his mind of clutter.
“I have options,” he said aloud. “They think I don’t, but I have all the options.”
*
Jeff Taylor had seen enough. Aided by his designer cane and his wife, Taylor hobbled toward the Lincoln Memorial handicapped elevator. The botched spectacle of an inauguration wasn’t over yet. But it was obvious that, with Eva Hudson in the White House, Taylor’s career was.
The CEO’s phone buzzed. General Wainewright’s photo appeared on the display. Taylor’s thumb flirted with the IGNORE button. Any correspondence with Wainewright or the other conspirators now was very risky. The coming witch hunt for the conspirators would be like none the world had ever seen. A hundred times bigger than the Kennedy conspiracy investigations. Still, he reasoned, Wainewright was dangerous. Better to keep him close, Taylor decided. He steadied himself on his wife’s arm and answered.
Wainewright wasted no time in making his intentions clear. “Jeff,” he said, “I don’t have to tell you what an Eva Hudson Presidency means.”
“They’re fueling up my jet now,” Taylor said quickly. “Meet me in Chantilly in twenty minutes.”
“We will not cut and run,” Wainewright said. “Your job isn’t done yet.”
As Taylor realized what Wainewright was suggesting, he began to lose his balance. His wife ground her heels into the concrete flooring and managed to steady him. “What is it that you want?” he said.
“Have your troops secure the White House perimeter and await my arrival,” Wainewright pressed. “No one gets in or out without my approval.”
Taylor had once considered Wainewright a strong ally and a personal friend, but he had never suspected that the General was such a radical. A back room conspiracy was one thing. But now Wainewright was staging a public coup. He was going to kill Eva Hudson in open view and take the White House by force.
The CEO figured he had nearly fifty million dollars divided among personal accounts in Europe and the Caymans. If his health held up, he might be able to buy his way out of trouble. “Ulysses is strong,” Taylor said, “but it’s nothing without the backing of the President.”
“Wrong. The Pentagon will fall neatly into line behind me,” Wainewright assured him, “And Ulysses will take its place at my side as my own private elite force.” Taylor was quiet for a moment. Wainewright knew better than to give him time to process it. “Jeff,” Wainewright added, “Don’t think for a second that you can run from this. If Eva gets power, she will find you.”
The General had a point. He recalled how Eva had proved her mettle as a global bounty hunter at the IMF. Taylor figured he might have to hide in a developing country – or at least one hostile to the U.S. government – that would sell him political asylum. He tried to imagine himself adjusting to life in a country like Syria. Or North Korea. He had been to both places on business. He hadn’t seen a single handicapped ramp or parking space in either country, not to mention the state of the hospitals. Not ideal for someone with disabilities.
“Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” Wainewright said. “Hold the White House for a single day, and the country is ours.”
Taylor took the elevator down to his car. He dialed his local field commander, who had spent the past three days busting civilian heads in the Capitol. He explained that in light of what his men had already done to D.C.’s homeless population, and considering the Hatch administration’s lack of popularity, the order to contain the White House perimeter came as a more or less natural extension of Ulysses’ current role. Still, Taylor had to be realistic. It was possible that his employees would have to battle other Americans. That could have disastrous consequences on morale. Widespread desertion
was a very real possibility. But every warrior had his price.
Taylor offered the field commander an eight-figure bonus – paid in cash – if he could hold the White House for forty-eight hours, or at least until reinforcements could be called in from Chantilly and elsewhere. He was to keep half the bonus for himself and distribute the rest among his squad leaders. They would be part of a new America, he explained. And they were going to profit from it.
The National Mall
11:24 a.m.
As the bewildered Pentagon brass made their way down the Lincoln Memorial steps, seventeen Secret Service agents formed a human perimeter around Eva and Speers. Seventeen was all Special Agent Jack McClellan could round up on short notice, not twelve hours since they had been dismissed by Wainewright’s transition team.
McClellan met them in the middle of the circle of black suits and sunglasses. They knew each other well. McClellan had personally escorted Eva to three world economic summits, and it had been Speers himself who had persuaded Agent Rios to reinstate McClellan to First Team detail.
He was the first to address Eva by her new title. “Madam President,” he said, his eyes scanning the Ulysses forces, “We have to move out.”
They whisked her down to the Presidential car, nicknamed The Beast. The vehicle was straight out of Batman – five-inch thick armor, run-flat tires, blast-resistant undercarriage and an interior that auto-sealed during a chemical attack. McClellan hoped today wasn’t the day that the Beast had to earn its name.
The security detail divided into groups and filed into six other cars. Typically, the Presidential motorcade would have been three times that number, including at least two decoy Presidential limos and four SUVs loaded with urban combat specialists.
Line of Succession: A Thriller Page 30
