Deep State Stealth

by Vikki Kestell

  “Arrangements?”

  “They have filed the flight plan and are fueling the jet as we speak.”

  “Very good.”

  The car passed through the drive’s open gates and wound toward the checkpoint on Massachusetts Avenue NW. The guards waved them through.

  As soon as they passed the checkpoint, her driver turned left and navigated to Wisconsin Avenue. Soon after, he turned onto a side street and parked behind buildings close to Holy Rood Cemetery.

  Winnie’s second bodyguard was waiting for them beside another vehicle—a white SUV with the markings of a Metropolitan Police Department of the District of Columbia patrol car. He opened the car’s rear door, and Winnie slid inside. The two guards put on the deep blue caps of the MPDC. Winnie dug into her bag, removed her scarf and sunglasses, and donned them.

  The guards climbed into the front seat. The car returned to Wisconsin Avenue but diverted south onto 35th. Their route was not ordinarily the fastest one. However, half a block onto 35th, the driver switched on the car’s siren and light bar and increased his speed.

  They flew across the Theodore Roosevelt Memorial Bridge and merged onto the George Washington Memorial Parkway. With siren warbling, they traveled at eighty miles per hour toward Reagan National.

  FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER Winnie Delancey and her guards departed, a Marine helicopter touched down on the lawn across from the Vice President’s residence. It was not a Squadron One VH-20 Lockheed Martin Sikorsky specifically adapted and refitted for the President’s use but an older UH-60 Black Hawk, one that had seen combat action.

  Two Secret Service agents and seven armed marines in woodland combat utility uniforms jumped from the chopper. The marines deployed at a run to surround the house. The Secret Service agents strode with purposeful steps toward the front door.

  They did not knock, and their abrupt entry startled the staff.

  “Where is Mrs. Delancey?” one of them demanded.

  A tall, svelte woman hurried toward them. “Are you Mrs. Delancey’s escort?”

  “You might say that,” one of the agents answered. “Where is she, please?”

  “I’m Rachel Landsman, Mrs. Delancey’s personal assistant. She went up to change her clothes only a few minutes ago. I expect her downstairs shortly. Would you be kind enough to wait by the front door?”

  “We’ll wait by the staircase.”

  “A-are you certain? Is there a problem?”

  They ignored her and took up positions at the foot of the stairs.

  Five minutes later they had grown uneasy. After another two minutes, they looked at each other.

  “She’s taking too long.”

  They rushed up the stairs to the Vice President’s bedroom and pounded on the door.

  Winnie Delancey’s maid opened to them.

  “Yes?”

  “Where is Mrs. Delancey?”

  “Who are you?”

  “Secret Service. Where is she?”

  “Oh! Of course. I was asked to give you this note.”

  She timidly offered them a folded sheet of paper.

  One of the agents opened it and read aloud, “I simply could not sit idle, waiting for the helicopter, when the hospital is so close. I elected to leave for the hospital with my driver. I apologize for the inconvenience. Thank you for understanding.”

  “She’s running.”

  The other agent spoke into his comms. “Mrs. Delancey is on the run.”

  He heard his superior curse, then issue orders.

  Winnie Delancey had been in the air eleven minutes by the time Air Traffic Control closed D.C. airspace.

  THE NANOMITES WERE at work on the President, attempting to save him from the poison Simon Delancey had administered. While they worked, I researched botulinum toxins.

  I knew that what I found might not apply to him. The compound the Vice President had sprayed in the President’s face had been modified by scientists in a lab somewhere, probably a lab in America. That meant that the type of botulinum toxin the scientists had begun with would bear little resemblance to the poison that was shutting down Robert Jackson’s systems at this moment.

  And while I knew that “compound” meant the toxin was a cocktail of more than botulinum toxin, I could only speculate as to what the other ingredients might be. So, I kept my mind preoccupied, reading up on the various botulinum strains. What I found dismayed me:

  Botulinum toxin is one of the most deadly biological substances known. It is a neurotoxin that binds to nerve endings where nerve and muscle join and prevents muscles from contracting—resulting in paralysis, muscle atrophy, and respiratory failure. If a patient survives, some effects may be permanent.

  Considering that botulinum toxin generally does not manifest its symptoms for 24-72 hours—but the toxin with which Delancey had dosed the President had produced an immediate effect—only increased my angst for him.

  “Nano? What can you tell me?”

  The doctors have put the President on a ventilator and have administered an antitoxin. They are, in the main, observing him and providing supportive and palliative care. The President is gravely ill, Jayda Cruz.

  “What are you doing to help him? What can you do?”

  The antitoxin prevents the toxin from doing further damage to the President’s nerve endings. However, the damage already done cannot be reversed. We are actively repairing what nerve damage we can. We do not know if it will be enough to prevent system shutdown.

  This was not the news I wanted to hear.

  Lord? Here is a man who professes to know you. He is a good leader for America. Lord, in the name of Jesus, I am asking you to do what the doctors and even the nanomites cannot do: Please heal this man’s body and mind and restore him to office!

  I had to remain under the bed as the doctors and nurses worked feverishly over me and while the nanomites did the same. I closed my eyes and recalled waking up in the cage this morning—was it really only this morning?—a scrap of that special hymn running through my mind. To myself, I hummed,

  “Up from the grave He arose,

  With a mighty triumph o’er His foes.”

  The cage had trembled and shaken. The electrical panel had arced and blown out. Our prison doors had opened.

  A series of miracles.

  “How wonderful you are, Lord God!” I whispered. I hummed softly . . .

  “Death cannot keep his Prey,

  Jesus, my Savior;

  He tore the bars away,

  Jesus, my Lord!”

  The chief ER nurse bending over the President hummed to herself.

  “What’s that melody, Carole? It feels familiar, but I can’t place it.”

  “Hm? Oh. I . . . I can’t place it either.”

  The Chief of Internal Medicine squinted at the ceiling and thought. “‘Up . . . up something.’”

  An ER attending physician nudged him. “‘Up from the grave’?”

  “That’s it, Paul. ‘Up from the grave he arose . . .’”

  “It’s an old hymn. ‘With a mighty triumph o’er his foes.’”

  The nurse and the two doctors sang together softly, “‘He arose a victor from the dark domain, and he lives forever with his saints to reign. He arose, he arose—’”

  “This really isn’t the place for religious songs,” another nurse interjected. “I mean, I don’t have anything against religious songs personally, but I’m sure HR would have something to say—”

  A nurse minding the President’s vitals interrupted, “Doctor? The President’s blood oxidation has markedly improved.” She checked the President’s fingernail beds. “Better color, too.”

  “‘Death cannot keep its prey . . .’” the chief ER nurse sang in a whisper.

  “Interesting. Did that song have an effect on the President’s condition? I wonder . . .” The Chief of Internal Medicine’s glance swept around the treatment room. “Does anyone object to us singing? Quietly, of course. If you do object, please say so now. Anyone? No?”<
br />
  He grinned behind his scrub mask. “Care to lead us, Carole?”

  “My pleasure, Carl.”

  They sang softly, but this time other voices joined them. Mine, did, too. From under the bed, I sang with the same heartfelt worship I had sung with this morning.

  Lord, with you, all things are possible—because up from the grave you arose!

  The medical team sang on. It seemed no one knew the verses except the nurse named Carole, so she led them, and the rest joined in on the chorus. Those who hadn’t known the song before picked up on the chorus easily enough after a few times through.

  Then, the singing ended on an abrupt note.

  I didn’t see it happen—but I heard the reaction of those who did. Gasps of surprise and astonishment.

  “Mr. President? Sir? Look at me, please, sir. I’m Carl Tanner, Chief of Internal Medicine at Walter Reed. Yes, you’re at Walter Reed, Mr. President. Please don’t try to speak. You are intubated.”

  The tumult around the President’s bed prevented me from hearing much more. Dr. Tanner must have felt the same, because he called for order.

  “Quiet! Everyone quiet, please. You want us to remove the vent, Mr. President? I’m sorry, but it is much too early to do so, sir.”

  Robert Jackson must have insisted, because the doctor said, “Yes, sir; however, it is not a wise idea this early in your, uh, treatment. We need to be sure you can breathe on your own, sir.”

  I knew Robert Jackson a little. I could pretty much envision the glare with which he punctuated his nonverbal order. Good luck with that, Dr. Carl Tanner, Chief of Internal Medicine!

  Dr. Tanner growled, “Get me an arterial blood gas, please—and elevate the President’s head a few degrees.”

  No one spoke while those orders were followed.

  “Nano, are you still working on the President?”

  Jayda Cruz, this is very odd. Many of the damaged nerve endings have regenerated without our intervention.

  “You aren’t working on him any longer?”

  No, Jayda Cruz.

  I was ready to burst. “Nano, tell Kennedy that I’m coming out.”

  I wiggled under Kennedy’s lifted foot (Man, the things I do for my country!) and found a place at the back of the treatment room where I wouldn’t be in the way. I stood on a chair against the wall, so I could see over the heads of the medical team.

  “Nano! What is the President’s current condition?”

  Jayda Cruz . . . we do not know how to explain the President’s physical turnaround.

  “Yes, yes you do. You saw a miracle just this morning.”

  Dr. Tanner said, “All right, Mr. President. The nurse is going to remove the tube. If you are unable to breathe on your own, we will immediately sedate you and reinsert the vent. Do you understand? Good.”

  Nurse Carole said, “Mr. President? I’ve deflated the cuff in your trachea. As I pull the tube, you will feel discomfort. Coughing is normal. Ready?”

  Tense moments passed as the President coughed and choked until the tube was out. Another nurse placed an oxygen cannula in his nose.

  “O2 levels holding. Respiration rate unchanged.”

  “Mr. President? How do you feel?”

  The President’s voice, rough but strong, rang out.

  “Kennedy!”

  Axel sprang forward. “Yes, Mr. President?”

  “Did you arrest that traitor, Delancey?”

  “We did, sir; however . . .”

  “However, what?”

  “Sir, we’ve received word from Camp David that the Vice President suffered a fatal stroke soon after he was arrested.”

  “Oh? Did he, now?”

  The President put his head to one side considering Kennedy’s report . . . or as though listening. He appeared neither surprised nor concerned.

  “Uh, yes, sir. He was pronounced dead on the scene.”

  “I see.” He cleared his throat. “Will someone get me some water, please?”

  Chapter 40

  GAMBLE CALLED US LATER to report the unwelcome news. “Winnie Delancey got away. The entire alphabet soup of American intelligence and law enforcement agencies are working to locate her. If I had to guess, she’s heading for South America.”

  “She cannot be allowed to escape; she must face justice. She’s responsible for so many deaths,” I whispered.

  Genie. The President’s friend, Wayne. Not to mention dozens of American POWs during a war that ended before I had even been born.

  “We’re doing the best we can, Jayda.”

  “I’m sorry. I know you are. How is Trujillo?”

  “On her feet and anxious to start working out to regain her strength, thank you. What about the nanomites? Can they help in the search for Winnie Delancey?”

  “I will put them on it.”

  IT WAS FINALLY EVENING, and we were back in the apartment Malware had loaned us. My body was convinced it had survived the longest forty-eight hours of its life. The events of the past two days kept running through my mind, wearing me down all over again. I was beyond fatigued, but I couldn’t rest yet.

  Zander and I had a few mop-up details to handle before we could, finally, let down.

  Let down. As in collapse and take a week off to do absolutely nothing.

  I kept thinking that our assignment was mostly over. We’d found out what happened to President Jackson’s friend, ending the Overman family’s long ordeal. We’d saved the President’s life (again) and exposed the brains behind the plot.

  Vice President Delancey and NSA Deputy Director Danforth were dead, and the FBI had arrested Secret Service Assistant Deputy Director Morningside. A sweep of their homes and offices had turned up evidence to incriminate a raft of low- and mid-level players, including the dirty Secret Service agents and NSA security police officers we’d already identified—and one high-level scientist within the Army’s Institute for Infectious Diseases.

  Many of the remaining conspirators would hide in plain sight during the coming top-to-bottom investigation. They knew (and we knew) that rooting them out would prove nearly impossible. Going after entrenched bureaucrats was like playing a game of “Whack-a-Mole.” The FBI and Justice Department would have to content themselves with snagging the occasional heads that popped up, but they would never be able to entirely clean out the infestation.

  Kennedy called, too, and told us that the President was recovering nicely and would be released from the hospital later in the coming week. At the President’s direction, his people had held a press conference and come clean with the nation, making them aware of the two attempts to overthrow his administration. The resulting media tumult was in full swing and likely would not die down for months.

  Kennedy had also secured a private interview with Acting President Friese. As a result, Friese had grown a spine and ordered the Secret Service to remove his party’s people from the White House—much to their helpless wrath. Friese was content to hide in the Oval Office, enjoying the perks of the presidency, following Marcus Park’s guidance but deflecting any real decisions, knowing the President would resume his duties soon.

  So far, amid all of the commotion and confusion, our names and identities had remained out of the limelight—a minor miracle among several ginormous ones.

  I would like to say that, by that night, the FBI had some idea as to Winnie Delancey’s whereabouts, but no joy there. She had, Gamble told us, chartered low-flying planes without transponders to hop from state to state and illegally leave the country. Kennedy and Gamble both insisted that she was no longer a threat to us or our family, but I wasn’t convinced.

  At least the hit squad she’d sent after our family in New Mexico had been arrested. The FBI Albuquerque Field Office Special Agent in Charge had IDed the two men and charged them with impersonating federal officers, interviewing members of the pathology team under false pretenses, and attempting to bribe and, when that failed, threatening the family of a federal agent.

  With the hit team ou
t of the way, Gamble had phoned the commandant of White Sands, who promised to deliver Zander’s parents to their home by breakfast tomorrow.

  I sent a text to Dr. Bickel’s phone giving him the “all clear.” He would receive it the next time he stuck his head out of the mountain to check. Then he, Abe, Emilio, and Izzie could leave the mountain’s safety.

  We would have “some ’splainin’ to do” with Izzie, but that could wait. It would have to.

  Zander was finishing up his call to Pastor Lucklow. “We wanted you to know that our family crisis has been resolved,” he said.

  “We understand how family often must come before ministry, Zander.”

  “Thank you, Pastor. I just hope you don’t think less of me for dropping the leadership of Celebrate Recovery back on Tom and Becky after only three weeks in the saddle.”

  “Not at all. In fact . . . Well, you’ve been out of the loop for a bit, Zander, so let me catch you up. You see, whatever happened when you visited Jack Grober’s wife and daughter in the hospital has had a profound effect on Grace Chapel. Our Sunday services are overflowing, and Tom and Becky report that five newcomers to Celebrate Recovery have surrendered their lives to Jesus. To put it in plain terms, we are experiencing a move of God’s Spirit—and it seems to have begun when you prayed for Kaylee Grober.”

  When Zander hung up, he stared at the phone. “Wow.”

  “Wow is right. Thank you, Lord God . . .” my words trailed off. I was soooo tired.

  “C’mon, babe. Let’s tuck you in.”

  “’Mkay.” No argument from me.

  We crawled into bed, our pillows close, our faces touching. Zander kissed my forehead, then my eyes.

  “Nice,” I mumbled. “Really nice.”

  He kissed my nose. He kissed my cheeks. He kissed my ear. Then . . . my neck. Chills caromed around inside me. I longed to sink into Zander’s arms and lose myself in him.

  He must have felt the same way, because we whispered together, “Lights out, Nano.”

  Jayda Cruz.

  “Lights out, Nano. Don’t start with me!”