Captive-in-Chief

by Murray Mcdonald

  Eric saw his chance. He moved his wrist, and fired, the speed of his movement went unseen by the gunman holding his wife while the other Mexican saw only a flash. He hadn’t really understood what it was until the bullet tore through his chest. He fell to the ground.

  Eric raised his pistol. The Mexican pushed his MP5 into Eric’s wife’s head. Eric cocked his revolver, letting the Mexican see what was coming.

  “There is only one certainty here, you will die!”

  The Mexican was speaking. Eric wasn’t listening. He pulled his trigger, the bullet missing the Mexican by less than an inch. Eric fired again, the speed of the second shot almost indiscernible from the first. The first struck the MP5, perfectly ruining the mechanism and rendering it useless other than as a club or a doorstop. The second caught the Mexican squarely between the eyes.

  Eric rushed forward and cradled his wife before she fell to the ground under the weight of the dead Mexican.

  “That was like something out of the cowboy movies!” croaked the trooper, lying on the ground nursing a bullet wound to his side and thigh. His eyes fixed on Eric and his gun slinging antics.

  After checking his wife and their unborn child were okay, Eric went to the trooper’s aid.

  “You saved her life,” said Eric, tying a tourniquet above the trooper’s leg wound.

  “All you,” the trooper said, grimacing through the pain. “That was amazing, I’ve never seen anyone use a gun like that outside the movies.”

  Eric shrugged. “A bit of a hobby of mine. Still nowhere near Bob Munden though.”

  “Bob who?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Eric said as the police and press descended on the scene.

  Governor Eric Warner was going to top the news headlines for the second time in as many days.

  Chapter 46

  Joe spent the afternoon with Sandy checking out their new work area. He still had no idea what he was supposed to do although he had a lovely location in which to work out what not to do. Trees and bushes screened the large outdoor pool, giving the president and his family a private and secluded oasis among the very public grounds of the White House. A pool house offered a kitchen area, changing facilities, restrooms, and a fully stocked bar. Joe stared at the bottles of liquor. Clay had obviously become a whisky drinker. A selection of Scotch single malts adorned the top shelf.

  Joe kept staring. He could taste them simply by looking at the colors speaking to him, the light amber to the dark treacle colored liquids firing his taste buds. His throat ached for the alcohol burning the back of his throat as that first hit worked its wonders. A splash from outside broke the spell. Sandy had jumped in to the pool. There hadn’t been many days in her life she hadn’t been for a swim but Joe couldn’t help feel it was her way to stop him.

  “Get out of there!” he hissed, not wanting anyone to know she was swimming in the president’s pool.

  Sandy came out as directed and threw him a look that said either he was a spoilsport or she knew what he had been thinking. Whichever it was, she wasn’t overly happy. She shook herself, picking a spot in the sun to dry off. Joe cast his gaze back to the bar, walking in and picking up a glass. His hand shook slightly as he held it. He looked up at the whiskies and felt in his pocket, extracting his medication. It was time for his Librium and painkillers. He filled his glass and swallowed the pills, downing them with one big gulp. He turned to see Sandy staring at him.

  “Water, just water!” he said showing her the glass. “Worse than a wife!” he muttered cleaning and replacing the glass on the pristine surface.

  With a final pang for the whiskies, he closed the door to the pool house and sat down on the edge of a sun lounger. He needed to try and figure out exactly what it was he was going to do to earn his forty-two grand. An hour and a half later he awoke with a start, Sandy was licking his face. Someone was coming.

  “So you all set?” asked Amy Klein, rounding the pool house. Joe had managed to get to his feet before she appeared. His afternoon nap on the job had gone undetected.

  “Think so,” said Joe. “All looks good.”

  “How about Sandy, did she enjoy the pool?”

  “No, definitely not, she’s not allowed in there,” said Joe, he looked down at a very guilty Sandy, she was still wet, she had obviously been back in the water while he slept.

  Amy smiled. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell. Not on my super cute bestie!” She tickled Sandy’s chin.

  Sandy stretched her head up to allow Amy full access.

  “So will I get an Uber?”

  “A what?” asked Joe.

  “An Uber,” she said again. She pulled out her smart phone and tapped it a few times.

  Joe looked at Sandy. She wasn’t interested, she was waiting on Amy to put her phone away and continue scratching.

  “Three minutes,” announced Amy, slipping her phone back in her shockingly pink handbag and rewarding Sandy’s patience.

  “Three minutes for what?”

  “The Uber. Come on, we can cut through here. Oh I nearly forgot, you’ll need this.” Amy handed him a pass. “White House Ground Staff. It clears you for pretty much everywhere except the main buildings.”

  Amy set off in her ridiculously high heels. Joe offered her an arm to help speed her along. He was keen to see what an Uber was. A car pulled up as they walked into the car park at the side of the West Wing, and Amy’s cell buzzed in her bag. She fished around in her bag to find her cell and check the message before looking up. The driver of the car was out and holding the door open.

  “That’s it,” she announced.

  “That’s what?” asked Joe.

  “The Uber,” she replied, walking towards the car.

  “An Uber is a car? Why not just say car? And why didn’t you know this was it until after checking your phone?”

  “It might not have been,” she said stepping inside.

  “Mrs. Klein,” the driver said as she climbed in.

  “Hey, Carl,” she replied with a smile.

  “You know him?”

  “Carl picks me up most nights.”

  Joe shook his head as Carl shrugged in acknowledgment. “Same every night,” whispered Carl as Joe and Sandy joined Amy in the car.

  “You could always ask him if he’s your Uber, right?”

  “My husband says I have to check, otherwise who knows? It could be a kidnapper or rapist and they’d say they were my driver.”

  “Even though it’s the same guy most nights.”

  Amy shrugged. “My husband is very security conscious. If I didn’t check and he found out he’d be furious.”

  An hour later, Joe and Sandy were settled in their own apartment. Neither could quite believe it. The apartment was huge, yet only a tiny part of the far bigger house. As promised, Sandy had a garden and a pool. Joe took a shower, the longest, hottest shower he’d had in over forty years, and probably his whole life. Voice controlled, he had no idea what he was doing. His wound stung but he didn’t care, the warmth of the water washed away any worries about pain. He felt like a new man. The Librium had alleviated his cravings, his hand shake was getting better and he realized he hadn’t had a headache for the last few hours. He had a job and apparently hundreds of thousands of dollars in the bank.

  Life was as good as it had been for him for as long as he could remember. He switched the TV on and the world came crashing back to reality. The reason he was there. The reason he was 1,500 miles from his beach. The president, his friend, the reason he and Sandy were in D.C., looked tired and drawn. The president’s daughter was being held captive, and the Capitol had just been blown up. As Clay’s life was turning to shit, Joe’s shit life was improving. Joe dried himself off. He needed to focus, get his mind back in the game. He was there for his friend.

  The president announced the military drawback. Joe hadn’t known Clay for most of his adult life but it certainly didn’t sound like anything Clay would have thought to do under the circumstances. Joe had no doubt that Cl
ay’s strings were being pulled. They were controlling him like a puppet.

  The analysis of the president’s historic announcement was interrupted by breaking news in Montgomery, Alabama. An overexcited injured state trooper was relaying the story of Governor Eric Warner and his amazing gunmanship. Footage of the governor leading the singing of the National and state anthem followed, along with his riding on the side of the truck leading the charge against the rioters. Joe was impressed. That was a young man with some serious mettle. America had itself a new rising star and a hero to boot.

  ***

  “Well?” asked Elsa as the call was answered.

  “Well what?”

  “I got your message. The new pool man, anything?” she snapped, angry her mission for the governor hadn’t gone as planned.

  “Oh that, yeah. He’s a nobody. Nothing to be worried about.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that!” Elsa said icily. “School, college, work history, any connections?”

  “Graduated barely from a poor school in a mining town, Virginia, if I remember, definitely not Florida where the president graduated. Joined the Marines in—”

  “He was a Marine?!”

  “Force Recon. Never in the same unit, and from what I could see from his records their career paths never crossed. He was an NCO and honorably discharged for psychological and physical medical reasons in 1991. Long before the president left the Marines, and he wasn’t Force Recon.”

  “Force Recon is pretty hardcore.”

  “He’s a drunk. Got the shakes and he’s popping Librium like they’re candy. He’s rough, been living on the streets for years. I couldn’t find any history of any work since he received disability from the Marines back in 1991. He’s a nobody.”

  “A nobody that somebody gave a job to and we don’t know why?”

  “I told you, it could have been anyone. The chief of staff or someone who asked him to do a favor and help an old guy out. The guy who knows is dead. I’m not in a position where I can ask too many questions. Could have been the first lady asked him to employ the old guy, she’s always got a new cause.”

  “I’m not convinced. I’ll look into it. Until then keep an eye on him!”

  “Won’t be hard, he’s in my basement apartment.”

  “He’s what?”

  “Trust me, this guy has nothing to do with the president. He’s an old guy down on his luck with a cute dog. Jesus, I caught him sleeping on the sun lounger on his first day at work!”

  “You’ve got a cover to keep up,” warned Elsa.

  “Don’t worry, ditzy Amy will be fine.”

  “Ditzy Amy was on her honeymoon and came back to a note on her desk from a dead guy that nobody knows anything about!” Elsa snapped.

  “Don’t even go there.”

  Elsa calmed herself. Amy was right, Elsa shouldn’t go there.

  Amy had given up two years of her life to play her part. As the ditzy blonde employed at the White House she processed new employees for the White House. In reality, she was a highly intelligent woman and had secretly vetted every new employee inducted into Clay Caldwell’s administration.

  As a member of the team that controlled the president, she was the brilliant Amy, highly intelligent, organized, and ensured there was nothing they didn’t know about the people around Clay Caldwell. Her team of investigators drilled into the minutiae of every employee’s personal and private life, who was cheating on their spouse and with whom, who were closet homosexuals, who had drug dependencies, drink problems, addictions to porn, normal or depraved, who beat their partners, who got beat by their partners. It was as shocking as it was revealing as to how you never really knew the people around you. Many shouldn’t have been anywhere near the White House, never mind the president. Amy believed that at least five should have been in prison and for two of those, prison was too good.

  Her biggest sacrifice had not been pretending to be the ditzy blonde that ensured she was never considered for promotion or looked at too carefully by her colleagues. The biggest sacrifice had been her marriage. Her husband was not a dashing young businessman. He was rich, obscenely rich, although unfortunately he was as rich as he was repulsive. He had taken a shine to Amy a few years earlier and came to an understanding. His contributions were directly proportional to how well he and Amy got on. She had managed to stall relations for a time but as time progressed, dating, engagement, and ultimately as more monies were required, a Vegas wedding followed by a week in Bora Bora.

  Elsa had nicknamed him Jabba and joked that was perhaps insulting to the Star Wars character. “Sorry, it’s just our plan in Alabama didn’t quite come off as we hoped.”

  “Fine, although you know I wouldn’t have gone unless it was—”

  “No, no, I was out of order, you have done more than—”

  “Please, don’t,” Amy shuddered. “I managed to keep him at arms length for the last two years saying I wanted to be a virgin bride.”

  Elsa couldn’t help laughing. Amy had been a wild teenager, her virginity gone long before the age of consent.

  “So you had to…”

  “Oh God please, I’m going to throw up.”

  “So, this Joe…?” Elsa changed the subject back.

  “Trust me, he’s a nobody. His dog’s a service dog, a companion dog to help keep him calm. Anyway, he’s in my basement, I’ll keep an eye on him.”

  “Investigators?”

  “There’s nothing to investigate. He’s a bum from what I can tell. He’s lived on the streets for the last twenty odd years. You should have seen his reaction to the bed in the apartment. You can’t fake that. So what’s next?” asked Amy, keen to change the subject.

  “I’m on my way back to D.C., not sure what I’ll be doing next.”

  “I can’t believe it, our whole lives, our mothers, fathers, grandparents. We’re finally—”

  A loud knocking on her front door interrupted her.

  Amy checked the video feed. The house was fitted with the best security system money could buy and she could check any camera on any TV screen within the house.

  Joe stood in her doorway, a remote control in his hand.

  “Jesus, I’ve shown him five times how to use the system!” Amy exclaimed with a sigh. “The guy’s never even used a computer, and I mean never!”

  “He really is a nobody,” said Elsa.

  Joe had unwittingly by his ignorance of modern technology ended any suspicion he was anything other than a nobody.

  Chapter 47

  John Carlyle kissed his wife, son, and daughter, and headed out for another day’s work. Like the majority of Americans, as devastating and shocking as the recent events had been, it didn’t change their daily routine. They still had jobs to go to, bills to pay, and children to raise. The riots that everyone felt would cripple the country had been dealt with swiftly and efficiently by the FPS. Other than a few flare ups in some of the more racially charged neighborhoods, subsequently dealt with just as effectively by the FPS, there had been little disruption beyond the first initial riots.

  The loss of the Capitol had been a catastrophic blow to the legislature of the United States. However, for the normal, average American family, other than news broadcasts being almost entirely dedicated to the aftermath, little affected their daily lives. The government continued to function, banks and ATMs still worked, supermarkets were well stocked, schools and businesses were open as usual. Life went on. The US had taken its swift and decisive revenge for the attack and to most Americans, the matter was already falling into a terrible event that they’d remember forever. However, it was not as important as making sure they had food on the table and money in their pockets.

  John closed the door on their Brooklyn townhouse and embraced the morning sunshine, its warmth bringing a smile to his face. It was a beautiful morning. He looked at his car parked in the bay in front of their house. They were spending their weekend at his parents’ house upstate, and knowing his wife, that would mea
n even at a bare minimum, a trunkful of luggage, of which they’d use barely a fraction. A spot that close to the house was like gold dust. Ninety percent of the time, he was lucky to be on their own street. He looked up at the sky, azure blue without even a wisp of cloud. It was a beautiful day indeed, a fantastic day for a walk.

  He checked his watch; he had plenty of time to travel the two miles. He knew he should exercise more, mainly because his wife was constantly telling him, although he had noticed he was using different belt notches from the previous year. He set off at a pace that would have him in work by 7.45 a.m., before any of his 1,700 schools began lessons for the day. Reaching the Brooklyn Bridge Promenade, he slowed his pace. The wonder of the New York skyline lay in front of him. The view zipped by when he traveled by car. The Empire State and Chrysler buildings lay off to his right; buildings that had been constructed with pride and true engineering genius. No computer modeling was available to ensure the structure would last the test of time, stand up to all that nature could throw at them. Yet there they stood, almost ninety years on, as impressively as they ever had. Five of the sixteen tallest buildings in New York had been built in the 1930s. It was an era he looked back on with great fondness, a time that America rose from the depths of depression, showing a tenacity, determination, and value system that would drive the country onward.

  He checked the time. He needed to pick up the pace. He had never envisaged himself as an educator yet there he was, the number one educator in the New York City district, Chancellor John Carlyle. He’d always wanted to be a pilot, but as his father told him, pilots didn’t help drive the country onwards, a pilot wouldn’t help bring change to the country. Change was coming. He knew that the last few days were only the beginning. Attitudes were already being altered beyond anything thought possible mere weeks earlier. The US detaining over 60,000 of its own citizens and hardly an outcry; it was staggering. He stepped off the bridge and into the shade and chill that the skyline offered. Beautiful from afar, the modern skyscrapers had none of the style or grace of the classics. Where he would stand and gaze in awe in the shade of the Empire State, he simply shivered in the shade of the modern lesser buildings.