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.
He refocused on the task at hand. It had taken longer than he would have liked, but he had been able to use the slave machine he had acquired in the Ulysses USA Chantilly headquarters to network into the company’s combat operations center. From there, he would be able to send instant messages to ground troops that would appear to be from central command. Theoretically, he now had the power to manipulate the very forces that were blockading the White House.
Nico realized that there were two problems with this strategy. First, thanks to the spotty news coverage, he had no way of knowing what the battleground really looked like. Without the ability to see Ulysses troop positions, any bogus directives Nico might issue to Ulysses forces might inadvertently help them. The second problem was that his directives had to seem realistic. If he issued something that didn’t smell right — like sudden withdrawal — it would only take seconds for a field commander to countermand the order. There had to be some slight but significant movement that would tip the scales against them.
He glanced up at the TV as a camera zoomed in on a lone figure atop the Eisenhower Building. She wore a t-shirt with the block letters NIC on the back.
Nico turned up the volume. A frantic, disembodied voice narrated the scene. “We’re looking across the street, although the smoke has made visibility quite poor. I’m told the woman you’re seeing is NIC’s Haley Ellis, whom C-SPAN watchers might remember from last year’s intelligence congressional hearings.”
Nico drummed the desktop with his fingertips. He had just found his spotter.
17th Avenue
12:31 p.m.
A barrage of 25mm gunfire sliced off the southwestern corner of the Eisenhower Building rooftop. Ellis hit the deck as the tracer rounds edged closer, shearing tiny chunks off the historic building’s ornate sixth-floor exterior. Scary as it was, Ellis took some satisfaction in being the target of this latest assault. It meant that her three kills had finally forced the Ulysses Bradleys along 17th to redirect some of their fire from the SWAT and FBI forces.
Now she felt the telltale vibration of her phone in her pocket. She pulled it out and read a text message from Agent McClellan: base runner headed for home. south lawn. clear a path.
Base Runner was the codename for a President in transit. Ellis hoped McClellan was mistaken. She had heard the President’s limo, codenamed “The Beast,” was heavily armored, but it wouldn’t be any match for the Bradleys that were blocking access to the Ellipse and the South Lawn.
Ellis ran, hunched over, to the southeast side of the rooftop and looked over the side. From there she had a partial view of the West Wing and the Oval Office where Agent Carver waited with LeBron Jackso
n. She could also see the entire South Lawn, The Treasury Building some 300 yards to the east, and the Ellipse. The five Ulysses Bradleys were still there, parked end-to-end, gunners peeking out of their turrets like a row of armored gophers.
The phone rang in her hand. She checked the caller ID. It read CARVER. “Abort!” Ellis answered. “The path isn’t clear!”
But the voice on the other end wasn’t Carver’s. “I can help you, Haley Ellis,” the voice said.”
“Identify yourself or get off the line. “
“I’m a friend of Agent Carver’s,” Nico Gold told her. He had managed to hack into the network to spoof Carver’s mobile ID. It had been the only way to ensure that Ellis would take his call. “If you could wave a magic wand and make Ulysses do just one thing right now, what would it be?”
“Who is this?”
“Try me, Haley Ellis. There isn’t much time.”
Ellis ducked and spun on her heels, scanning for enemy spotters. The haze had grown too heavy on 17th. She could no longer see the opposing rooftops. She gazed across the South Lawn to the Treasury Building. Something was happening over there. She saw hunched over figures running back and forth. “I need to know who I’m talking to.”
Nico’s voice was steady and insistent. “Just try me, Haley.”
The Presidential motorcade would be coming up the South Lawn any second now. To do that, they’d have to cross the Ellipse. “Okay,” Ellis said. “Five Ulysses Bradleys are parked on the Ellipse. I need them gone.”
“Gone where? Be specific.”
Ellis didn’t have to think too hard. “Tell ‘em the HVT is at 15th and Pennsylvania. Tell ‘em to stage there and await further orders.”
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