by Rob Jones
He hadn’t heard from any of them since that day back in the desert when he’d turned his backs on them and walked away, and not for the first time he wondered what Lea and the rest of them were doing now on their private island – what had they called it – Elysium?
“You’re thinking about her, right?”
He looked up and saw Alex had rejoined him in the cockpit. He watched her sit down in the First Officer’s seat. Things had gotten so hectic in Africa he’d barely stopped to look at her, let alone talk to her face to face.
That, at least, had been corrected in the past few weeks they’d spent together in her father’s hunting cabin in the mountains. It was a peaceful time, and in many ways he had wished it would never end. Watching Alex learn to walk again had been an amazing experience, for one thing, and it had helped him avoid thinking about the ECHO problem for another.
“I need to get some back-up,” Hawke said ignoring Alex’s question about Lea.
“My Dad has some back-up,” Alex said. “It’s called the US Army.”
Hawke grinned, pleased to hear some levity in the chaos. “No, I mean someone I really know.”
“I thought you weren’t on talking terms with ECHO since you flounced off like a spoiled little girl?”
Hawke ignored the barb and sent the text. “This person’s in the Everglades on a job and can be in DC fast.”
“Who are we talking about?”
Before Hawke could reply, Alex’s father, known to the rest of the world as the US Secretary of Defense, came and sat down in the jumpseat behind them. He rubbed his face and sighed. “Now we’re out of that shitstorm, just who the hell were those guys, Joe?”
“Germans.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Germans, Jack. The grenade they threw at us in your cabin was a DM51, a classic fragmentation grenade originally equipped to the West German Army back in the Cold War.”
“But anyone could have got hold of them.”
“Sure, but they were all carrying German submachine guns and their accents sounded German to me. I think we’re dealing with Germans, Mr Secretary.”
“Germans?” Brooke looked confused. “That doesn’t make any sense at all! The Germans are our allies. What the hell would they launch an attack on the United States for?”
“The German Government is your ally, sure, but these crackerjacks could be anyone. Think Hans Grüber from Die Hard and you’re roughly in the right ballpark, I reckon.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing, just thinking out loud. Any details about the President and Vice President?”
Brooke nodded his head grimly. “What Lopez said is true, I’m sorry to report. Vice President Thorn is dead – he was killed at Observatory Circle this morning by a similar crew of thugs that tried to kill us today back at the cabin. So is Todd Tobin, murdered by an assassin at a football game right in front of his wife.”
“And the President?”
“He was at a university in New Orleans when they kidnapped him. Our guys say that the driver of the limo may have been compromised.” Another heavy sigh. “I just don’t know – the whole day has descended into total chaos. All the information we have is just in crazy fragments and no one really knows what’s going on. How long till we get there?”
Hawke glanced at his watch. “Just over an hour now.”
*
An hour later, Joe Hawke watched the carnage unfolding in the streets of Washington as he turned the Embraer to line up with Andrews Air Force Base, just twelve miles southeast of the US capital. Smoke poured from several sites and the curfew’s deserted streets lent an eerie quality to the whole scene.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Brooke said, looking down from the cockpit window. “What the hell are we looking at?”
“The worst terrorist outrage on American soil, Jack,” Hawke said.
Brooke nodded and rubbed the stubble on his jaw. A look of deep anger flashed in his eyes. “I want the response to this to be totally disproportionate.”
“That’s the President’s choice, Dad,” Alex said. “Not yours.”
“And right now that’s Teddy Kimble,” he said. “And that doesn’t fill me with confidence.”
Hawke hoped he was wrong – he knew America needed a strong leader now more than ever. He turned to look once again at the terrible sight of smoke pouring out of the top of the Jefferson Memorial.
“My God!” Brooke said. “Even the Monument’s been blown to pieces – look!”
Hawke’s eyes flicked over the river to the Washington Monument, now no more than a smouldering stub sticking out of the earth. The ring of American flags that encircled its base was broken down and on fire. Here and there he saw a few terrified people running for their lives or piling their belongings into the backs of the cars.
“Looks like some are breaking the curfew.”
“This could get really ugly.”
Brooke banged his fist against the cabin wall. “Whatever son of a bitch is responsible for this will die for it, I swear!”
“They’re trying to flee the city,” Hawke said.
“Bad idea,” Brooke said bluntly. “There’ll be roadblocks on every exit route by now just in case the assholes behind this are still inside the Beltway.”
Hawke reduced speed, extended the flaps and deployed the gear. They would be on the ground in minutes.
Moments later, their SUVs sped north through the suburbs of Camp Springs and Oxon Hill before crossing the Anacostia River on the 11th Street Bridge. At the north end of the bridge they slowed for a road-block manned by a mix of Metropolitan Police Department officers and heavily armed US Marines, but when the men saw who was inside the SUV they waved them through with salutes.
As they drove toward the Pentagon, Brooke clicked shut his phone and leaned toward the driver. “That was Scott Anderson. He says the President wants us at the White House.”
The driver nodded and swung the wheel to the right.
Things were about to get serious.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Lea watched through the small porthole of the Gulfstream as the plane banked to the right and began its descent. In the glimpses she got through the cloud cover, the coast of Ireland looked beautiful, but seeing it again made her sad. It would always be home… only she’d wished the next time she came here it would be to introduce Joe Hawke to her family.
Her family.
After her father’s death on the Cliffs of Moher things had gotten a little rocky in the Donovan household. Her mother had started drinking and her brothers had signed up to the Garda. Liam, the oldest, was killed in a bank robbery in Dublin, while Finn ended up in the Special Detective Unit, the Irish equivalent of the British Special Branch or the FBI. The decade between their ages turned out to be an unbridgeable gap and they rarely talked. Even now she didn’t even know his address.
Now, below her she watched as the plane crossed over into Irish airspace for the first time as sunset slowly approached. Below her was County Clare, and there, with the wild waves of the North Atlantic smashing against them in their timeless assault, were the very same Cliffs of Moher. Her father’s life had ended in that violent swell below her – the gunmetal gray of the sea spume and the ragged, savage Moher cliffs at Hag’s Head. At four hundred feet high, she knew it had taken her father several seconds before he’d hit the rocks below.
She looked away, disgust and sorrow gnawing at her mind in equal measure. Someone will pay for that, she thought. There was nowhere in the world anyone could hide from her if she found the person who had killed her beloved Dad.
The pilot announced that they would be landing in around twenty-five minutes, and now they were low enough to make out individual houses and roads. Dry stone walls criss-crossed the moss-colored sheep fields beneath the executive jet, and she strained her eyes as she stared at the northern horizon to catch a glimpse of Connemara, the ancestral home of her family.
As her eyes settled on the clouds above Galway Bay, or Loch Lur
gan as her old Nanna used to say, her mind drifted to that damned Englishman once again. The arrogant, cocky, selfish, unreasonable, pig-headed, son-of-a-bitch, gobshite who had turned his back on her in the Egyptian desert. She sighed. The only thing she hated more than that man was how much she loved him, and damn him for it, she thought.
With Joe Hawke on her mind, the rest of Ireland slipped past her unnoticed – the smooth, verdant rises of Tipperary, Offaly, Laois and Kildare. Then, as the pilot announced final approach and the plane turned to line up with Dublin Airport, her mind snapped back into business mode. She had only the vaguest recollections of Sean McNamara from her childhood. He was one of her father’s many friends who had come and gone through the years. Why anyone would want to kill him she couldn’t begin to imagine, but she knew in her heart it was linked to her father’s murder.
And she was going to get to the bottom of it even if it killed her.
*
President Kimble had asked for some time alone in the Oval Office to consider what had just happened a few moments ago. It seemed like an age ago that the German had approached him with the files and made his business proposal to him. Kiefel had said that his compliance would facilitate a mutually beneficial arrangement, but any other man would have saved the time and called it what was it was – rank blackmail.
But was it so bad? The terms of the ‘arrangement’ were simple enough. Kiefel would use his considerable logistics and muscle to position him in the Oval Office in order that he perform one simple task, and after that he would be free of him forever – free, and the most powerful man in the world. It seemed like a reasonable proposal, and accepting the terms meant those files would go up in flames, and no one would ever need to know about his career-ending extra-curricular business activities.
He ran his hands along the edge of the desk. So this was the seat of power, he thought, looking around the room. As President pro tempore of the senate he had been in here before, naturally, but again it struck him how very different it looked from behind the Resolute Desk. He instantly felt the power at his disposal, but, and unexpectedly so, he was aware of a crushing responsibility bearing down on his shoulders like sacks of lead. All of the world would know everything about him, and every decision he took would go into the history books forever.
This, after all, was the exact same office in which Franklin Roosevelt had signed the declaration of war against Nazi Germany. This was the office where Harry Truman had given the order to drop the atomic bombs on Japan. This was the office where John Kennedy Jr. had played under the desk while his father navigated through the Bay of Pigs.
The very same desk he was sitting behind right now.
A noise startled him from his daydream.
He looked down to see his cell phone vibrating on the President’s desk – on his desk. He stared at it for a few seconds, reluctant to answer it because he knew who was calling.
Then he snatched it up and took the call.
“Yes?”
“Congratulations!” The voice was ice cold and almost mocking in its tone.
Kimble was silent. He started to feel sick.
“Teddy – are you there?”
“Yes…” the voice was barely a whisper.
“Well speak up then Teddy! Or should I say, speak up Mr President?”
Another pause. “Listen, Klaus… I’m not sure this is going to work out.”
“Listen to me, Teddy, and listen very carefully. You can’t back out now, you little shit. I made you President of the United States. You belong to me and don’t you forget it.”
“No… I’m sorry.”
“Better. I had to kill good men to put you in the Oval Office, Teddy. Better men than you. I still have many unspeakable things to do just to keep you there, President Kimble. Don’t you think that has a certain ring to it?”
“Yes… yes, I suppose it does.” He sounded a little more relaxed now.
“Good. Now you remember why I gave you the job, right Teddy?”
“Of course.”
“I want it released immediately.”
“Sure, but…”
“No buts, Teddy.”
“I’m just saying that these things probably take time. They’re not going to release something like that just because I tell them to. If what you say is true we’re talking about a doomsday weapon that makes nukes look like a Sunday School picnic.”
“Tut tut, Teddy – I am surprised at you questioning my integrity like this. Of course what I say is true! And yes, we’re speaking of something very dangerous indeed – but you’re still talking like a common senator, the President pro tempore of the United States Senate, but you’re not that man anymore, Teddy.”
“No, I guess not…”
“Good guess. This morning I kidnapped Charles Grant and had the Vice President and Speaker of the House assassinated. For this reason, Teddy, and courtesy of the current order of the American presidential line of succession, you are now the President of the United States and the most powerful man on the planet, after me, naturally.”
“I understand.” As he spoke, he watched a young woman on the housekeeping staff gently place a tray of coffee and cookies on the table in the center of the room. Her name badge read Veronica Fisher. She glanced at him and smiled as she left the room and closed the door behind her.
Kiefel continued. “Good. And that is why when you order Archive 7 to release the item in question, they will do as they are commanded.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t forget the catalog number, Teddy.”
Kimble noticed his hand was trembling. “How could I forget?”
“Repeat after me, Mr President: X422387-0.”
“Listen…”
“Say it!” Kiefel barked.
Kimble swallowed hard. “X422387-0.”
“There’s a good president…”
The line went dead.
Teddy Kimble was starting to wish he could turn back time.
*
Frank Watkins took the call at his desk. He was still in shock at the news of what was unfolding all around in him in his home city, and he lowered the volume on the TV set in the corner of his office as he picked up the receiver.
“What is it, Mandy?”
“It’s a call from the President, sir.”
Watkins looked confused for a few seconds. “The president of what,” he said annoyed. “The Ford Motor Company?”
“The President of the United States, sir.”
“What?”
“His office is on the line, sir, and they say it’s urgent that the President speak with you right now.”
Watkins widened his eyes and scratched his head. On CNN they were showing pictures of the Jefferson Memorial. It was on fire and looked like it had been bombed. The same thing had happened to the Washington Monument. Now, Watkins was struggling with the issue of evacuating essential staff from the museum when this happens. What the hell would the President of the United States want to talk to the Director of the National Museum of Natural History for?
“Sure…, I mean, of course – put him through at once, Mandy – and then go home and be with your family.”
“Yes, sir… thanks.”
He listened as there was a change of ring-tones and then another woman’s voice came on the line.
He cleared his throat. “Hello?”
“Dr Watkins, this is the Executive Secretary to the President speaking.”
“Hello.”
“I’m going to put you through to the President now.”
“Thank you, and…”
The line clicked before he could finish his sentence.
“Frank, is that you?”
“This is Frank Watkins, sir, yes.”
“This is President Kimble, Frank. I’m calling you from the Oval Office.”
President Kimble? It had to be Teddy Kimble from the Senate. Things were moving fast, he thought. He wondered if they knew what had happened to President Grant – was
he still alive or had the terrorists already done the unthinkable?
“I won’t say congratulations, Mr President. I know this is a terrible time for you to be charged with all this responsibility. This is a truly dreadful crisis.”
Kimble ignored the sentiment. “Frank, listen – I have to ask you something.”
“Anything, Mr President.”
“This is sensitive, Frank, but we need to talk about Archive 7.”
Watkins narrowed his eyes. “Archive 7, sir?”
“Level 7 in the archives under the National Mall, Frank.”
“I know what you’re referring to, sir, it’s just that…”
“Good, I need something released from the archive, Frank, and I need it done in a hurry.”
Watkins’s brow furrowed when he heard the new President’s tone. He sounded desperate and anxious, not qualities he wanted to hear in the voice of his Commander-in-Chief, and it made him suspicious. While the existence of Archive 7 was a long-running rumor on popular conspiracy theory websites, it had never been formally confirmed. More than that, the authorities had initiated a long-running disinformation campaign via agents posing as posters on the internet to rubbish any claims of its existence.
Watkins appreciated that he was one of a small handful of men who knew the top secret storage facility existed, and the others consisted of the Federal Government’s shiniest Top Brass – the President, naturally, being at the center of the inner circle.
But what he couldn’t understand was why Kimble was ordering the release of something from the archive within what could only be minutes of the Twenty-Fifth Amendment being invoked. It all seemed terribly odd to Frank Watkins. He sighed quietly and put his doubts aside. In the final assessment, he was talking to the President of the United States, and one generally did not say ‘no’ to the Commander-in-Chief.
“What do you need, sir?”
Kimble replied without hesitation. “The item in question is X422387-0.”
Watkins made a note of the serial number. There were countless thousands of items stored in Archive 7. It was impossible to know what they all were by serial number without looking them up. All he knew was if it was in Archive 7 then it meant trouble.
