“I, Jonas Jackson Johnson, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States… ”
Two hours north of Washington, a doctor at the St. Francis Medical Center in Trenton, New Jersey, pronounced a fifty-four-year-old farmer dead. He followed his wife to the grave after their well was poisoned.
“…against all enemies, foreign and domestic,” Chief Leopold continued.
Johnson responded, “…against all enemies, foreign and domestic…”
In Pahrump, Nevada, a local policeman keeled over on the job. His partner immediately called for paramedics to take him to Desert View Hospital.
“…that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same… ”
“…that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same… ”
Ten-year-old twins from Ghent, New York, were being cared for at Columbia Memorial Hospital, up the river in Hudson, NY. The attending physician felt they might have a chance.
“…that I take this obligation freely…”
“…that I take this obligation freely,” Jackson recited.
A long-haul truck driver along I-70 in Kansas had no chance. He grabbed his stomach, leaned over the steering wheel with sudden and severe cramps. The action caused his 18-wheeler to swerve.
“…without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion…”
“…without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion…”
At eighty miles an hour the big rig jackknifed, flipped to the side, and slid four hundred feet down the interstate. When it hit a van in the right lane, the truck exploded into a fireball. The truck driver died instantly. The family in the van really never knew what hit them. They never would.
“…and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter: So help me God.”
Johnson concluded, “…and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter: So help me God.”
The Chief Justice shook his hand. “Congratulations, Mr. Vice President.
As the death toll mounted outside, Jonas Jackson Johnson became the third man named Johnson to become vice president of the United States.
Morgan Taylor certainly hoped that his vice president would not succeed him the same way Andrew Johnson and Lyndon Johnson succeeded Abraham Lincoln and John F. Kennedy.
x3
Forty-eight
The White House
19 January
The news was the same. All bad. How could it be any different. Americans were sick and dying. Random as it might be, it created a wave of national fear.
Political perspective notwithstanding, the headlines were interchangeable from the New York Times to the Manchester Union Leader. And Hannity, Limbaugh, and Rachel Maddow were demanding answers to the same question. “What is the president doing about this?”
The debate echoed in America’s homes; from dinner tables to bedrooms and bathrooms. From elderly couples to teens and mothers nursing. To fathers arming for the worst.
What water can I trust? Who’s going to tell us what’s safe to drink? What if we run out? And predictably, When is Taylor going to attack?
Of course, attacking required a target. As for what was safe to drink, no one could safely answer.
“It’s a shit storm,” Bernsie said in the morning briefing. The other familiar faces were J3, Mulligan, and Evans.
“I know,” Taylor said. He was looking particularly gaunt today. The daily pressure that came with the job was one thing. This was something else entirely. John Bernstein saw how it was affecting the president.
Taylor leaned on his director of national intelligence, the man responsible under the Intelligence Reform and Terrorism Prevention Act of 2004, to oversee the country’s complete National Intelligence Program. Of course, national also meant international.
“We’re working Russia now. I’ll need more time.”
“Operationally where are we?”
“Texas. Houston to be precise.”
“When, Jack?”
“As long as we’re speaking of a domestic operation, I should chime in,” Bob Mulligan said. “Just for the record.”
“Okay.”
“Days, Mr. President. A coordinated air force and FBI op.”
“Days?” the president did not like the timeline. “You can’t be readied earlier?”
Mulligan looked at Johnson. Johnson gave him a positive sign.
“We’ll revise the schedule. Tomorrow. We have the target and I like J3’s, excuse me, the vice president’s plan. It’s damned original. If we pull it off, they’ll make a movie about it.”
“That good?” Taylor asked.
“That good,” was Mulligan’s reply. “General, care to share it?”
The newly confirmed vice president reviewed his strategy for capturing the MS-13 gang leader in Houston. The president had to agree, he’d never heard anything like it.
Forty-nine
Moscow
“Dubroff is in a secure wing at Burdenko Central Military Hospital,” Arkady Gomenko whispered over their third shot of vodka. “Top floor.”
“Burdenko,” D’Angelo repeated. Not good news. He knew the facility, though he’d never been in it. Burdenko Central Military Hospital was a five-building medical center, 275 years old, and rebuilt with state-of-the-art medical equipment and high-tech security systems. Very high-tech.
“I can map where he is. Top floor. But I doubt you’ll be able to get to him,” Arkady warned. “I hear he’s under lock and key.
“Don’t have a clue why or what he’s there for. But he’s certainly the man who can recite the history of Red Banner chapter and verse. Maybe this new Russia is interested in what he has in his head that goes beyond even the files I’ve been able to read.”
That’s exactly why D’Angelo had to reach him. According to a coded message from Evans, which he figured was somehow playing into the stateside news, his assignment had turned more urgent.
Washington, DC
The same time
“Well, Mr. Roarke, for a while there, I thought we’d never get our dinner in.”
Christine Slocum sat opposite Roarke at a corner table in one of Washington’s most popular eateries. The Occidental Grill and Seafood Restaurant was favored by White House personnel because it was around the corner from work; almost sprinting distance. The walls were adorned with historic photographs of presidents and twentieth-century personalities. The savory dishes were known for their fresh local ingredients and complicated blends of spices.
They had the choice of tables, because in Washington, like the rest of the country, most people were not eating out.
Slocum picked the quietest corner and calculated that her foot could provocatively reach his thigh. But the evening was too young to make that move. She dressed only slightly conservatively. Her neckline was definitely below see-level and she was hoping Roarke would rise with the tide.
They each had bottled water and took care not to order soup or steamed vegetables. Christine ordered the five peppercorn crusted salmon with caramelized cipollini onions, toasted black and white sesame seeds, and carrot-ginger butter. Roarke went for roasted loin of venison, crusted with fennel pollen and juniper seeds, served with chestnut flan tasting all the better because of the wild Maine blueberry grappa sauce.
“I’m sorry,” he said responding to her comment. “It’s been a little hectic.”
“For me, too. I work with the Speaker. Did I mention that?”
Roarke indicated she hadn’t.
“And he’s running like crazy. The president is throwing a lot at the Hill all at once.” She paused to make her next line really count. “Scott, I’m scared.”
“With good reason.”
Both of them had been following the news. Despite the president’s stated hope for calm, panic had gripped the nation. And with panic came looting. And with looting, arrests and clubbings which led to further strain
on local hospitals. It was getting worse by the hour.
“I wouldn’t recommend walking around alone,” he said. “You don’t want to be caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“The whole country is the wrong place right now.”
Christine looked deeply into Roarke’s eyes and stretched her arm across the table. Their fingers met and she gently inched her fingers up his arm. “I really am scared, Scott. Tell me the truth, are we going to be okay?”
Roarke took care with what he said. “From what I gather, the FBI is looking everywhere.”
“But aren’t you close to the president?”
“Oh, some days I see him. But he has his full-time agents. That’s not my duty.”
He wished he had not said that. It invited a question.
“What do you do?” she asked in an almost flirtatious way. “I mean besides working out in the morning and showering.”
He laughed at the reference to her bold encounter at the gym. “Mostly advance work. Sometimes for the president, other times for cabinet members. I’ve got a bank full of frequent flier miles I haven’t used.”
“Maybe we’ll get to cash them in.” Now it was time for her foot to reach his thigh.
Roarke responded by closing his eyes for a moment, which pleased her.
“I’ve never been to the White House. It must be exciting.”
“It’s just an office. You get used to it.”
“Oh, I don’t think I ever would. Especially now.”
“Wanna check it out?”
“Really? Even though I work for the enemy?”
“What?”
“You know, the opposition,” she explained.
“Hey, it’s everyone’s White House, Republican or Democrat,” Roarke said. “Just like Congress.”
“Still, aren’t I the enemy?”
“I don’t know, are you?”
“No,” she said softly.
“Then I can probably get you in.”
She worked her foot higher. “That was going to be my line.”
After dinner, Roarke helped Christine with her $1,000 black Burberry Brit Double-Breasted Coat from Nordstrom. As she turned into him for help with the buttons, she created the natural opportunity to regard his brown eyes and contemplate his lips. Just as she moved closer to what would be an invitation for the rest of the evening, Roarke’s phone rang.
Christine backed away, frustrated as he dutifully answered. She watched him as he said “Yup” a few times and “It has to be now, Shannon?” It ended with a quick “Okay. Bye.”
“Duty calls?” she asked when he finished.
“Yes, I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.”
“I’ll get you a cab.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Absolutely, but I want a rain check.”
“Oh?”
“The White House?”
Then she kissed him and felt him.
“Yes, that, too.”
Building 23
Centers for Disease Control
The bad news just got worse. Some eighty-five hundred deaths and counting. More than nineteen hundred in the last twenty-four hours. The causes began hitting the press as news organizations did their own analyses. Some right, some wrong. Sarin, Soman, Sulfar Mustard, and Lewisite—all available on the open market—and shaken, stirred, or mixed with water they created lethal concoctions across the country. Bonnie Comley expected the number of deaths to almost double by the day until Americans got the message. Turn off the tap.
The news channels didn’t help. They competed for the most disturbing footage: A deadly fight over the last quart of bottled water at a Cincinnati 7-Eleven. A truck smashing into a Birmingham Target after hours and loading up with soft drinks, cartons of juice and milk, and a big-screen TV just because.
Comely recognized that as people got more desperate panic would increase. It was a model she’d mapped on her computer two years earlier as an academic exercise.
It was becoming all too real now.
“We allowed this to happen,” she told CDC director Snowden. “The country has one hundred and sixty-eight thousand mostly unsupervised public water systems. Yet, how many people want to get rid of regulations and government infrastructure that we desperately need? And with antiterrorist efforts run basically without teeth, we’ve thrown open the door to anyone with a little knowledge and a vial of spores.”
Comley referred to The Association of Metropolitan Water Agencies which created the Water Information Sharing and Analysis Center (WISAC) as a volunteer program.
“Hell, I went to the last WEFTEC session,” she said, recalling the Water Environment Federation Technical Exposition and Conference. We had a night of speeches about how locks were being changed and monitoring systems had been upgraded. The bottom line is that while our water systems are viewed as predominately safe for human consumption, our infrastructure is choked. And the cost for upgrading?”
Snowden had the numbers off the top of his head. “EPA says $123 billion. The American Water Works Association estimates $360 billion. The Water Infrastructure Network puts it at $1 trillion and twenty years to make things safe.”
“Twenty years? Try right now,” Comley added.
Snowden was supposed to give the president an update; hopefully something positive. There was no positive news coming out of the CDC today.
The White House
“This isn’t like most terrorist acts,” Taylor said to his wife while he got into bed. Eleanor rested a Kindle on her lap to listen to her husband. The history of women’s suffrage would always be there. “Water is sacred. More than electricity, even more than cable TV. They haven’t even had to poison supplies everywhere, not that they could have. Enough to make people believe all the water is contaminated; enough so people would lose confidence in the safety of their water supplies.”
“Which they’ve done,” she offered.
“Brilliantly, sweetheart. Absolutely brilliantly.” He reflected on his next thought. “And as a result the country has lost faith in me.”
“Come here. Give me some good news.”
He moved into his wife’s arms, but he had nothing to share.
“Everyone’s working hard,” Eleanor said consoling him.
“Yes they are. The National Infrastructure Protection Agency…”
“The what?”
“Part of Homeland Security. They cover critical review of the nation’s electric power, food, and drinking water, our national monuments, telecommunications and transportation systems, chemical facilities, and a whole lot more.
“Oh.”
“Well, they’re talking with Information Sharing and Analysis Center.”
“They’re talking with a sharing center. How nice.”
The comment actually made Morgan Taylor laugh. Then he explained. “They’re dealing more with cyber threats than physical attacks, but maybe this experience will make us smarter for the next inevitable attack.”
“So much for less government,” Eleanor said. “Thank God the EPA didn’t get completely slashed.”
“Not completely, but only a little more than a couple of million went into counter bioterrorism efforts.”
“What will it take, hon?”
“A blank check and Congress looking the other way while I do a few things they won’t want to know about.” He pulled the covers up to his chin. “Now, let’s go to sleep.”
Fifty
The Oval Office
20 January
The biggest debate over the strategic plan had been between Vice President Johnson and FBI Chief Robert Mulligan. Both argued that they had the better handle on the mission. One required Constitutional review; the other needed a communications link and a Thesaurus.
Morgan Taylor made the final decision.
“Bob, the bureau has the know-how, but you’re not hooked up into the Pentagon lingo. If your men read
a flash order wrong from the birds, you’d put them and the operation at risk. Special Forces go in.”
“You understand the issues deploying American armed forces under these circumstances. It’s not legal.”
“I do,” Taylor stated. “Neither is mass murder.”
The president pressed the intercom button at his desk. “Louise, please send in Attorney General Goldman and Ms. Kessler.”
Bob Mulligan and the vice president stood as the nation’s attorney general and the president’s new deputy counsel joined the discussion. After the perfunctory greetings, the president launched into his lead question.
“We’re discussing the issue you’ve been researching. Where do we stand, Eve?”
The attorney general, long a friend of the president and a hard-as-nails lawyer, sat forward on the couch.
“You asked whether there are any constitutional limits to the president engaging in a domestic military action and what constitutional standards apply to its use. I had Ms. Kessler review case law, executive acts, and legal precedence. She has done that quickly and efficiently. Considering time is of the essence…”
“Utmost essence,” the president interrupted.
“Granted, utmost essence,” Goldman corrected herself. “Ms. Kessler?” She turned to Katie Kessler.
Katie arranged some papers on the coffee table.
“Yes, let’s have it, counselor,” the president said with real respect. Morgan Taylor had seen the young attorney under fire, real fire—political and physical. She exhibited immense character, courage, and the ability to stand up to the most powerful personalities in government. Morgan Taylor for one; Supreme Court Chief Justice Leopold Browning for another. And then there were the challenges she faced maintaining a relationship with Scott Roarke; a man the president constantly put in harm’s way.
Katie Kessler wore an olive green pants suit for the meeting; a little more stylish than business de rigueur, yet still courtroom acceptable with a white blouse and freshwater pearls. Her body language mirrored the attorney general’s. Proper and formal.
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