Line of Succession: A Thriller

by William Tyree

  *

  Agent Rios knew very little about arson, and even less about making a bomb. But he knew that the White House had one of the most sophisticated smoke and chemical detection systems in the world. He wasn’t going to be able to simply walk into one of the kitchens and turn the gas on, wait a few minutes, and light a match. The sprinkler system would have the fire out in no time. He would have to be more creative.

  He took the elevator to the White House bowling alley and walked through the back, down the stairs, to the boiler room. Early in his career, he had occasionally accompanied city officials here to read the gas meter, and he remembered the pipes snaking overhead to every part of the White House complex.

  The room was pretty much as he remembered it, except that the old steel gas pipes had all been replaced with new copper. He sat on the floor looking up at them, hoping for some type of eureka. It did not come. He opened up the janitor’s closet and looked around. It was then that he spotted a can of WD-40. As a kid growing up in East L.A., one of his cousins had taken him out into the desert and showed him how to make a flamethrower using a lighter, some metal tubing and a can of WD-40, which was highly flammable. He remembered standing over a giant anthill, holding the flame in front of the aerosol can, and torching thousands of red ants. At the time, he had considered it the coolest thing he had ever seen.

  He looked back up at the gas pipe.

  The White House had twenty-nine fireplaces and three kitchens. It stood to reason that the gas pipe funneled natural gas to all those places, where it was bottled up and stored at one of many valve endpoints. If Rios could find a way to inject flame into the pipe from the boiler room, he saw no reason why the flame wouldn’t be carried through the gas pipe to all the fireplaces and each of the stoves in the White House, causing fires in many or all of those places. He doubted even the White House’s system had access to enough water pressure to put out 29 fires at once.

  He went to work rummaging through the crates of tools for a drill, an ice pick, anything to inject fire into the pipe.

  As he worked, thoughts of Haley Ellis drifted in and out of his mind. He realized how much he had looked forward to their lunches over the past year. The little things. Hoping she would show up with her hair down. Hoping she wouldn’t bring up old boyfriends. Or new ones. But he never pushed anything.

  He didn’t want to die without spending another night with Haley. And he didn’t want to be remembered as the man that had blown up the White House. But Rios understood duty. He would do what he had to.

  Fort McNair, Washington D.C.

  12:17 p.m.

  The Presidential motorcade swung down Maine Avenue and took a right at P Street SW toward Fort McNair’s gated entrance. Eva, Dex, Speers and McClellan shared the back of the Beast. Dex was on the phone with the commander of several Virginia National Guard units. “I am still the Defense Secretary of these United States!” he shouted. “I am relaying a Presidential Directive to deploy your troops to the White House immediately!”

  The commander’s response was evident in Dex’s face. He had been unable to convince a single one to confront Wainewright’s Ulysses forces in the streets around the White House. They were afraid of Wainewright’s retaliation, and Dex didn’t blame them. Unless they could somehow get Eva safely into the White House, and secure it, anyone who had ever opposed Wainewright was going to end up on the wrong end of a firing squad.

  Dex hung up and turned his gaze to Eva. “He wants proof that you’ve got the support to take office.”

  “That’s your job,” Eva said. “If you can’t deliver that, then you are useless to me.”

  Even if Dex had overestimated his sway with the military brass, Fort McNair held the keys to Dex’s backup plan. The 200-year-old military outpost was neatly tucked into a Washington business district. Gone were the battlements that had once lined its walls. Gone was any trace of the gallows where the Lincoln conspirators were hanged in 1865, including Mary Surratt, the first American woman ever executed for treason.

  These days the base was much more like a college campus, awash in military officers in casual dress going to and from classes at the National Defense University’s War College. Other than a few armed MPs, there were no active combat units in residence. Which was why a pair of National Guard M1A1 tanks had caught Dex’s eye when he had visited the previous week. The upgraded M1A1 was still arguably the most fire-resistant tank in the world, having a composite armor package that included depleted uranium. It was nearly impossible to take one out with a standard RPG. Most anti-tank missiles couldn’t dent it either. Not in one hit, anyhow.

  As the motorcade pulled up to the gates, two Army MPs hustled out from the patrol booth. Dex got out of the state car and gestured at the gates. “Open ‘em up!”

  Both saluted as they recognized the Defense Secretary. The gates opened. Speers ran after Dex, passing the patrol booth as the motorcade drove by. The pair of thirty-two-foot long, sixty-seven-ton tanks were still parked on the freshly cut grass.

  “Who’s authorized to drive those M1s?” Dex asked the taller MP.

  “Two National Guard Tank Commanders are teaching a class in residence, sir. The tanks are for demo purposes only.”

  Dex wiped the sweat from his brow. “Like hell they are. Get those commanders out here on the double, and tell ‘em to bring their gear.”

  Dex walked up to one of the tanks and touched his hand to the sun-heated armor. “These bad boys are going to get us into the Rose Garden.”

  “How’s that?” Speers sputtered. “I see two measly tanks and two measly tank commanders. A battle-ready M1 has a crew of four.”

  The M1A1 had seen action in six war zones since 1990, and aside from roadside bomb attacks in Iraq and Afghanistan, there had been only two confirmed reports of M1A1 armor being compromised by enemy fire. In both cases, the tanks had been hit from behind, where the armor is thinner.

  “Well?” Speers persisted. “How are these tanks going to do anything against twenty-some-odd Ulysses Bradleys without even a full crew?”

  “We won’t be slowing down long enough to fight.”

  Now Speers found himself in Dex’s face, spitting as he spoke. “Eva’s life has been in constant danger for four days. I’m not willing to go there again.”

  “Get out of my grill,” Dex growled. He had already decked Speers once today, and the idea of tattooing the Chief’s face with his fists again was tempting.

  “Hey!” a voice shouted. Jack McClellan emerged from the Beast and jogged toward the tanks. “I just talked to the boys over at CS,” he said, referring to the Secret Services’ counter-sniper unit. “He’s scrounged up about twenty snipers, maybe more. They’re willing to fight.”

  Dex’s eyebrows raised, but he stopped short of smiling. They were going to need a lot more help than that. “Coordinate with Haley Ellis.”

  “Who?”

  “Haley Ellis. NIC snitch with some urban combat experience. She’s taken up a position atop the Eisenhower Building. We might as well coronate her as the eyes and ears of this op.”

  17th Street SW

  12:21 p.m.

  It was ninety-six degrees along 17th Street with ninety-eight percent humidity. Heat flares rose up from the asphalt, mixing with exhaust fumes to create hundreds of tiny, fleeting rainbows that rose and evaporated like Technicolor ghosts. The civilian crowds melted away into the side streets as columns of Ulysses soldiers marched up 17th and 15th, which ran parallel on the other side of the White House Complex. A crew of five Bradleys sealed off southern access to the White House by setting up positions along the Ellipse. Haley Ellis thanked her lucky stars that Ulysses didn’t have air power.

  She watched through binoculars as FBI agents wearing bullet-resistant vests fanned out atop an office building at 17th and F Streets. Another group deployed further down 17th atop the old Red Cross mansion. FBI Director Fordham had managed to come up with just ninety agents – the best he could do on short notice. It was good that
they were taking the high ground. Ellis had led urban patrols in Ramadi and been in exactly the position Ulysses was in now. Nothing had been more demoralizing than being pinned down from above.

  Still, Ellis knew those numbers weren’t going to be nearly enough should the crisis escalate into full-on combat. If nothing else, she hoped that the notion of fighting the FBI would be enough to make some of the greener Ulysses troops desert their posts.

  In the past hour Ellis had also been on the phone with the D.C. Metro police. The local cops hadn’t cared for the way Ulysses had taken over the city during martial law, and it wasn’t hard to convince the DC Metro Police Chief to pitch in. SWAT teams were staging on the Blair House rooftop at the corner of 17th and Pennsylvania, and also at Lafayette Square. Riot police were assembling a few blocks away.

  White smoke billowed along 17th from an FBI tear gas canister. Ellis trained her binoculars on the street, hoping to see the first signs of desertion among Ulysses’ ranks.

  A voice boomed over a mobile PA system that the FBI had been hastily mounted atop the Red Cross building further down 17th: “This is FBI Director Fordham. All Ulysses units are to disband immediately and leave the White House area. If you do not leave, you will be treated as hostile.”

  Having themselves been prepared to use tear gas during martial law, the Ulysses troops quickly donned gas masks. Ellis held out hope that they wouldn’t have the gall to fire live rounds at Federal agents in broad daylight.

  Two of the fifteen Ulysses Bradleys turned their 25mm guns toward the Blair House and unleashed a torrent of fire along the roof’s edge. It’s on, Ellis thought in wonder. This is really happening. Public versus private, brother against brother, God versus the Devil.

  The FBI agents responded with a fierce salvo from the adjacent rooftops as the Ulysses troops were still struggling with their chemical masks. A handful went down in the first volley.

  Her phone buzzed. She answered on Bluetooth, but it was impossible to hear the caller over the sound of the battle. She tore off the headset and pressed the phone close to her ear.

  The caller was Special Agent Jack McClellan. “I’m here to help,” the old man said. “I’ve got twenty counter-snipers and a hundred Emergency Response agents ready to rumble. Plus about fifty special agents, but they’re pretty much only packing guts and handguns.”

  “Get your snipers on high ground near 15th and Pennsylvania. The D.C. police are already massing at the other end of the street.”

  “Got it,” McClellan said.

  “Also, Ulysses has managed to get on top of the Treasury Building. They need someone their own size to pick ‘em off.”

  “Will do. I’ll check in when we’re in position.”

  Now that the game was on, Ellis wasn’t about to be left out. She slid the M4 off her shoulder and steadied the barrel on the edge of the building overlooking 17th. She would have to limit her targets, as the M4’s effective range was only about 160 yards.

  On the street below, Ulysses troops were taking cover behind their Bradleys, having already figured out that the hostile fire was coming from the northwest and southwest corners of the street. Ellis decided to give them something to worry about from the east. She targeted a soldier reloading her weapon from behind one of those big Bradleys.

  Despite firing her weapon dozens of times in Iraq, Ellis had, to the best off her knowledge, never killed anyone. This was to be the first. “God forgive me,” she whispered. Then she exhaled and squeezed the trigger.

  The White House

  12:23 p.m.

  The steady crackle of gunfire grew more audible as Carver opened the oak-and-walnut-framed door to the Oval Office. LeBron stayed close, his oversized hands trembling as he held fast to Carver’s left arm. They stood before the couch where Carver and Speers had sat with the President on Sunday morning. Where so many pivotal meetings had taken place throughout history.

  Carver realized that he had better put his reverence for the Oval Office behind him. Some things had to be destroyed in order to be saved.

  He sized up the room from a defensive perspective. There were four entrance points – doors opened to the Rose Garden, the President’s private study, Mary Chung’s office and the West Wing corridor. None of the doors had locks, making it a less than ideal place to fend off an attack. The lone opportunity for cover was the Executive Desk, which looked to be made of heavy wood. From the room’s south-facing windows he could glimpse Ulysses troops shoring up positions across the South Lawn and the Ellipse.

  He laid his M4 across the Executive Desk and peered out the windows to the Rose Garden. The intensity of the firefight along 17th, 15th and Pennsylvania was encouraging, but it also came with risk. Unless Ulysses could somehow be cut off, they could decide to retreat into the White House itself. If that happened, Carver would have no way of holding them. Rios would have no choice but to blow the place.

  He dialed Agent Rios to establish some ground rules. “Call me every five minutes,” Carver said. “If I don’t answer, or we get cut off abruptly, you know what to do.”

  “What if you lose signal?” Rios protested. “I can’t torch the White House on a dropped call!”

  “Then call the land line,” Carver said. “I’m in the Oval Office.”

  “You’re where?”

  “You heard me. If I don’t answer, it means Wainewright is already here.”

  He hung up. LeBron peered out the window like a nervous cat. Every pore in his adolescent body was crying out for survival. “Can I go?” he pleaded. He gazed up at Carver, who at thirty-eight was old enough to be the 12-year-old’s father. “Please? I can run fast.”

  The kid didn’t exactly look like a track star. He was all baby fat and dimples. “Get under the desk,” Carver said. “It’s the safest place. Unless they come in from the West Wing. If that happens, make a run for the Rose Garden,” he said, pointing at the vast rows of flora planted along the West Wing perimeter. “Get behind a bush and stay there until the guns go quiet.”

  The boy nodded solemnly. “What if something happens to you?”

  “Then make friends with whoever’s still alive.”

  *

  Down in the Executive Fallout Shelter, six Ulysses MPs stepped in from the tunnels and secured the room. Wainewright and Farrell followed, along with two journalists from Stars and Stripes – the military’s “independent” news source. The journalists wore heavy packs containing cameras, computers and mobile broadcast equipment.

  Wainewright instructed the Ulysses troops to guard the tunnel entrance. The two generals, along with the journalists, went up the staircase into the Executive Mansion. In less than five minutes they would enter the Oval Office, where Wainewright would address the world community as the leader of a new America.

  Farrell regained phone reception and began downloading a series of reports. He sniffed the foul air. The ghastly odor of smoke, gunpowder, diesel fuel and tear gas – a byproduct of the street battle – wafted through the mansion’s ventilation ducts.

  “We are encountering some resistance,” Farrell reported as he read a message from the Ulysses field commander. He yearned for a cigarette, then thought better of it. Wainewright was in a delicate mood. There was no sense in angering him.

  “By who?”

  “Certain elements of the FBI, sir.” He found himself unable to provide the General with additional details, for fear that he would overreact.

  “Authorize the use of indiscriminate force on all enemies of the state,” Wainewright said. “Scramble a squadron of attack helicopters. I want the FBI headquarters reduced to rubble.”

  Farrell couldn’t hide his shock. “There are civilians working in that building.”

  “Zero tolerance,” Wainewright said. “It’s the shortest path to stability.”

  Walking slowly behind his master, Farrell doubted the Air Force would obey the order. He also could not curb his cravings. He plucked a cigarette from his front pocket and reached into his front pants
pocket for a lighter. He sparked the cigarette and inhaled, savoring the taste of the unfiltered tobacco. “Sir,” Farrell said nervously, “I think this could be counterproductive.”

  The Chairman pulled the white antique Colt .45 revolver from his holster and shot Farrell through his smoking hand. The bullet passed through the back of Farrell’s left hand, through his mouth and eventually lodged near his cerebellum. The Vice-Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff crumpled at Wainewright’s feet.

  Wainewright lingered on the gory image for only a moment. He looked up at the horrified Stars and Stripes journalists. “Obviously we’ll memorialize him as a hero,” Wainewright said. “Start working on the story.”

  He began up the stairs. Wainewright’s mind turned to the broadcast he would soon be making from the Oval Office. He would stick to the talking points they’d been feeding the networks since Sunday. He would reinforce what the public had already been told – that Allied Jihad cells from Yemen and other extremist countries had infiltrated the United States and struck a crippling blow to the country. He would say that the foreign perpetrators had been dealt with, and that additional names and details would be forthcoming.

  Then he would tell the American public something new – that the terrorists had help from within the federal government, from right within President Hatch’s own cabinet. Eva Hudson. Julian Speers. People the President trusted most had been unhappy with the direction the country was going and decided to overthrow the administration in a mad scramble for power. He would promise to prosecute these traitors and bring them to justice.

  Burlington

  12:26 p.m.

  Nico watched the shaky, hand-held camera view of dark smoke rising from behind the Red Cross building along 17th, just a block from the White House. Since the FAA had grounded all news network helicopters this morning, news feeds amounted to a few frightened journalists delivering blow-by-blow reports from behind buildings and cars.