Deep State Stealth

by Vikki Kestell

  That’s because no one on the ground saw me jump out last.

  The nanocloud was not fully charged, and I didn’t know how long they could sustain my invisibility . . . but, somehow, I needed to get to the President before the “juice” the nanomites needed to keep me hidden ran out.

  THE CAMP COMMANDER of Naval Support Facility Thurmont studied the Vice President as he glowered and complained of his treatment.

  “You have no right to hold me here! No right at all. In fact, with the President ill, I should be at the hospital with him, ready to assume the duties of the presidency if he is unable to perform them.”

  “I’m not a constitutional scholar,” the commander drawled, his hands on his hips, “but I’m fairly certain that attempted assassination of the sitting president puts you right out of the line of succession.”

  “Attempted assassination? Preposterous! Says who?”

  “Save it for the judge, Mr. Delancey. The FBI will arrive soon to take the three of you into their custody.”

  The commander considered the two Secret Service agents sitting a couple of seats from the Vice President in the camp office foyer, cuffed to their chairs. In contrast to Delancey’s voluble objections, they had gone silent at the get-go.

  Nothing like stone-cold reserve to confirm guilt, the commander thought. Still, not for me to decide.

  He addressed the two Marines guarding the prisoners. “Are we good here?”

  “Yes, sir,” they answered.

  “I’ll be in my office.”

  He didn’t see (indeed, no one saw) Callister and Mitchell’s nanobug arrays leave the agents’ bodies and creep across the back of three adjoining chairs and crawl into the Vice President.

  The two million “dumb” nanobugs followed the simple instructions they had received. They relocated themselves to their new host and traveled to where the spinal cord enters the skull and becomes the brain stem. The nanobugs took up residence within the medulla oblongata, that little portion of the brain that controls vital involuntary (or automatic) functions such as breathing, heart rate, and blood pressure. They spread themselves across the medulla, in as much as two million nanometer-sized electromechanical devices can “spread” themselves over an area about three centimeters in size.

  They had not been in position long when they received a follow-on command: Self-destruct.

  The nanobugs vanished in a spontaneous burst of energy. So did a good portion of Vice President Delancey’s medulla.

  “Hey, I think something’s wrong with him!” Callister pointed at Delancey.

  “Sir? Sir!”

  The Marines rushed to the Vice President’s side. His eyes protruded. His limbs spasmed and twitched. He struggled to breathe.

  “Commander!” one guard bellowed.

  The other reached for a phone and rang the infirmary. “VIP Medical emergency, Camp Office!”

  The commander, who had left the foyer thirty minutes prior, strode back. “What the—”

  One glance was all he needed to tell him the Vice President was experiencing—had experienced—a medical crisis.

  With a last, shuddering exhale, the VP’s watery blue eyes stared out into eternity.

  “We’ve called the paramedics, sir.”

  “I doubt they will be of any help.” The commander placed his hands on his hips and swore under his breath.

  Could this day get any worse?

  THE NANOMITES HAD MINED Walter Reed’s website while we were in the air. Although we couldn’t know for certain where the hospital staff had taken the President for treatment, our best bet was to start with Emergency Services. I sprinted along South Wood Road, adjacent to the helipad and leading to the nearest hospital entrance—the ER.

  I knew it was the right place before I got there. Two staggered lines of armed and ferocious military and Secret Service personnel guarded the front of the building. No unauthorized person would get past these fierce men and women. I could only imagine the chaos within the ER. You know, inside, where I needed to go?

  I slipped unseen between the harsh, hatchet-faced men and women protecting their Commander-in-Chief. Instead of going for the main entrance, I detoured toward a “Hospital Personnel Only” doorway farther down the building. The nanomites unlocked it for me, and I ducked inside with little fanfare. The mites guided me to the ER—and I hadn’t been wrong about the chaos in that place.

  The hospital had emptied out the ER except for the President and a glut of busy medical personnel. Patients who’d been waiting to be seen or who were in treatment when the President arrived were herded off to another department, creating a stir of confusion and consternation for patients and staff alike. ER staff had taken Jackson into the largest treatment room available. His bed was surrounded by doctors and nurses. And to get to the treatment room, I first had wade through yet another half-dozen antsy agents.

  Before I could begin to infiltrate the President’s room, the ER doors slammed open. An entourage of VIPs trouped inside, their aides and two Secret Service agents clearing a path for the “important” people. A few of them looked familiar.

  “Nano? Who are these people?”

  White House Chief of Staff Marcus Park, Speaker of the House Frank Friese, Senate Majority Leader Regina Palau, Majority Party Chairman Donahue, Energy Secretary Nora Mellyn, Secretary of State Tom Banyon, and Supreme Court Justice Wendell.

  I thought I understood: With Vice President Delancey accused of attempted murder, the House Speaker was next in the presidential line of succession—and if the doctors declared that the President was incapacitated, Friese would be sworn in as Acting President.

  The hospital’s chief of staff and a hospital spokesperson met them, and it was obvious who, among the VIPs, had appointed himself leader: Majority Party Chairman Donahue.

  As Friese opened his mouth to say something, Donahue jumped ahead. “What is the President’s condition?”

  Friese shot Donahue an irritated glance.

  The hospital spokesperson, who seemed to know “who’s who” in the knot of VIPs, turned her nervous attention from Donahue to Friese. “Mr. Speaker, the President is unconscious and on a ventilator.”

  Donahue again interjected, “Is it true that the President was poisoned?”

  “We believe he has ingested a bio-chemical substance.”

  Friese—ignoring Donahue—asked, “What kind of bio-chemical substance?”

  “We are uncertain; however, we received word that a component of the substance was botulinum toxin. We have administered an antitoxin to combat it.”

  Donahue again. “Is the President incapacitated? Is he unable to carry out his duties?”

  Her eyes jinking between Donahue and Friese, the spokesperson said, “I will let Walter Reed’s Chief of Staff answer.”

  “Thank you. Yes, the President is incapacitated at present, his condition grave. We do not know when he will regain consciousness . . . or if he will.”

  Donahue gestured to the Chief Justice. “Swear in the Speaker, please.”

  “Wait one blasted second, Donahue.” It was Nora Mellyn, the Secretary of Energy. “You are getting ahead of the constitutional process. The cabinet officers make that determination.”

  She turned to the Secretary of State, next in the line of presidential succession after the Speaker of the House. “Secretary Banyon?”

  “We have received verbal approval from the other cabinet heads to make a determination as to the President’s fitness and act upon it. Mr. Chief Justice? Based upon the President’s medical condition as described by the hospital’s Chief of Staff, we affirm that he is unable to carry out his duties at present. Please administer the oath of office to . . . Speaker Friese.”

  I think the words stuck in Banyon’s throat, but there was nothing else he could say or do. I watched the swearing in (which took less than a minute). I confess, I was angry and concerned for the nation’s sake. What happened next was telling.

  Donahue shouldered the Chief Justice a
side and took the Acting President by his arm. “All right Friese. Your next step is to address the nation. I have your speech right here.”

  Friese frowned and blinked. “Address the nation?”

  “We’ll do it from the Oval Office.” He turned to Marcus Park. “Set it up.”

  Park, barely containing his indignation at being ordered around by anyone other than the President, removed his phone and walked outside on stiff legs.

  Donahue still had Friese by the arm and led him away. “We’ll use Marine One to return to the White House.” He jerked his chin at the two Secret Service agents who had arrived with them. “You’re the Acting President’s personal detail until your Director says otherwise.”

  Friese’s face fell in on itself, as though the sudden weight of the presidency had crushed it. Friese might be the Acting President, but Donahue was clearly in charge.

  The Peter Principle in action, I thought. Promoted to the level of your incompetence.

  Had we averted a coup that would have lost the Executive Branch to those who hated America only for the presidency to be taken over by partisan political hacks?

  I shuddered. One more reason to save Robert Jackson.

  I tiptoed by the Secret Service agents guarding the treatment room. A head or two swiveled my way as I passed, but nothing more.

  The treatment room was crowded, the President’s bed surrounded. Getting close enough to the man himself would be truly tricky.

  Jayda Cruz, Agent Kennedy is against the far wall near the head of the President’s bed.

  “Thanks, Nano. Please hack his earwig and tell him I’m here. Tell him that I need to get near enough to the President for you to help him.”

  Under the bed seems the logical location, Jayda Cruz.

  Oh, yeah. I’d found myself under John Galvez’ bed while the nanomites worked on his inoperable brain tumor.

  “Nano, ask Kennedy to make a hole for me to crawl under the bed.”

  Keeping my eyes on Kennedy, I skirted the crowd and got as close to him as I could without bumping or shoving a nurse or a doctor. I saw the moment he heard the nanomites. His eyes flicked around the room. Then he cleared his throat and started edging more to the side of the President’s bed.

  I moved toward him. He looked oddly off balance for some reason and pretty uncomfortable into the bargain—and then I saw why. He’d lifted one leg and was balancing on the other to make a hole for me to crawl through!

  “Nano, ask him how long he can hold that pose.”

  Kennedy’s taciturn countenance returned with a vengeance—and I almost snickered aloud. Then I got down on the floor and crawled under his lifted foot. When I had wiggled my way beneath the bed, I found an outlet on the wall behind the bed’s head and slapped my hand on it.

  The rest was up to the nanomites.

  Chapter 39

  THE WOMAN KNOWN BY the American people as Winnie Delancey, the charming but retiring wife of the new Vice President, smiled over her coffee cup. After forty years of immersion in Washington’s political scene, Winnie was the consummate politician’s wife. She masked her preoccupation as she hosted the wife of Majority Party Chairman Donahue for morning coffee in the Garden Room of Number One Observatory Circle, the residence of the Vice President.

  Her guest, however, was giddy with the trappings of power surrounding her. As she chattered on, she was oblivious to the historic events unfolding not many miles distant from the nation’s capital, the events hijacking her hostess’ attention.

  Winnie indulged the woman: It was important for the world to know that Winnie Delancey had been about her normal life when the news arrived.

  This will be a momentous day, Winnie mused, the culmination of years of struggle, sacrifice, artifice, and manipulation. Today the President will suffer a massive ‘stroke,’ rendering him incapacitated. Permanently so. They will rush him to the hospital where the best doctors will treat his symptoms—but to no avail.

  At any moment, Secret Service personnel would call to inform the Second Lady of the President’s medical emergency. Per Secret Service protocol, agents would ratchet up protections around the Vice President and assign a detail to the previously unguarded wife of the VP.

  A bloody nuisance, Winnie complained to herself.

  She scorned the very idea of being relegated to the subservient role of First Lady. She particularly despised the leash of Secret Service protection that would restrict her movements. From here forward, she would no longer be free to move about independently and relatively unnoticed. At least as Second Lady she did not have to contend with a Secret Service presence unless her husband was with her.

  Patience, she counseled herself. The news will come.

  Although the Vice President and his wife would mouth the proper platitudes and wishes for the President’s speedy recovery, today would, in actuality, be a long-awaited day of triumph. Soon after the medical experts examined the President, they would declare him physically and mentally unable to carry out the duties of the Presidency. The Vice President would call the President’s Cabinet Chiefs to the hospital to be briefed by the President’s doctors.

  The Secret Service, at the direction of the Cabinet Chiefs, would summon the Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court to administer the oath of office to the Vice President.

  The incoming President would insist on remaining in the Vice President’s quarters for a few days to give the outgoing First Lady grieving room. And later tonight, the new President and First Lady would make an unannounced and very discreet visit to a property they owned, a little farmhouse in the Virginia countryside. They would be accompanied only by the President’s Secret Service detail—men and women already committed to them.

  When we have ensured that Jayda and Zander Cruz are dead, we will lift the cage, Winnie mused. The nanomites will have no choice but to come to us, and we will revive them—we will save them! In return, they will give Simon a longer and stronger life—and they will imbue both of us with the powers Jayda and Zander Cruz once had.

  She indulged in a passing concern. I wonder if hosting the nanomites causes any discomfort?

  It did not matter. All was going according to plan—and if the transformation required pain, so be it.

  While maintaining an attentive but largely inane conversation with her guest, she kept one eye on her personal bodyguards standing post outside the Garden Room. These faithful (and well compensated) men had been with her for years. As did every person in service to herself and her husband, her guards shared her worldview. She had, in point of fact, cultivated with great care a staff that was more loyal to her and her ambitions than to her husband.

  As she smiled and bid her guest goodbye, she tamped down her impatience. However, when her bodyguards began adjusting their earwigs and whispering into the microphones up their jacket sleeves, she sighed with satisfaction.

  At last. Movement.

  Her personal assistant appeared.

  “Ma’am, the Secret Service is on the telephone.”

  Winnie kept her expression serene as she took the phone from the woman. She wondered how the Service would break the news of the President’s death to her, but she was prepared to be appropriately shocked and dismayed.

  “This is Winnie Delancey speaking.”

  “Mrs. Delancey, this is agent Randolph, Secret Service. Ma’am, I am very sorry to tell you, but the Vice President has been taken to Walter Reed.”

  Winnie could not grasp what the man was saying. “What? What do you mean?”

  “It would appear that the Vice President has suffered a stroke, ma’am.”

  “Simon? A stroke? No! Is . . . is he alive?”

  The agent hedged. “His condition is very grave, ma’am.”

  Code for dead—or soon to be.

  No! Jackson was to “suffer a stroke.” Jackson was supposed to be dead. No, no, no!

  She forced the shock and pain down. Locked it away. Her mind shifted from stunned anguish to analysis.

&nbs
p; “What happened? Can you tell me?”

  Agent Randolph’s response was guarded. “Not at this time, ma’am. The doctors will brief you.”

  Ah, you tried to suppress your deflection, but you could not hide it from me. Something went wrong. Something gave Simon away; he was found out.

  “I must go to him at once,” she answered automatically.

  “We are sending Marine Two to fetch you, ma’am.”

  “That is most kind,” she whispered. “Please. I-I must gather myself . . . change my clothes.”

  “Your ride will arrive within the quarter hour.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  What Agent Randolph did not say was that he would be taking her into federal custody when he arrived. Although he did not utter the words, she heard them clearly.

  She disconnected, took up another phone, and dialed. When the guards at the farmhouse did not answer, she surmised why: Jayda and Zander Cruz had escaped.

  I must act—and quickly.

  The distance to Walter Reed from the Vice President’s residence was less than seven miles by car. The distance to Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport was perhaps a mile farther—in the opposite direction.

  She called her personal assistant, maid, and bodyguards to her. Although Simon and Winnie Delancey had been in the Vice President’s residence for mere days, contingency plans had long been in place. She issued her instructions in quick, staccato bursts, then sent them to their tasks.

  She herself ran upstairs to her bedroom, opened a floor safe, and withdrew a single small bag, prepacked with only the most vital items: cash, fake passports and credit cards, a single change of clothing, sunglasses, scarf, and a smartphone and charger. Years ago, she had depended upon a tiny book in which she had printed a priceless list of contacts and foreign bank account numbers and passcodes. Now this phone held them all—and it was encrypted.

  Less than a minute later she ran out the front entrance to her waiting car; it pulled away immediately, one bodyguard behind the wheel.