William Tyree - Line of Succession

Then she saw him — Special Agent Hector Rios, the President’s personal security chief. He was impossible to miss among the throngs of summery tourists — six-foot-ten and 260 pounds, down from his NFL playing weight of over three hundred, in a regulation black suit, earpiece and sunglasses.

Eva spun on her Sunday heels and tramped across the street. “Agent Rios!” she fumed as she bored in on him. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

“Morning, Madam Secretary,” Rios said as politely as he could. “The POTUS asked me to come.”

“To keep tabs on me?”

“No ma’am,” Rios said. He wondered where the hostility was coming from. He had never had anything but sunshine from Eva. “For your personal security, of course.”

“Tell the President that number one, I don’t like to be watched, and number two, his personal security detail is funded by the taxpayers to provide protection for him and his family.”

“Yes ma’am, but…”

“I don’t qualify as family, Agent Rios. Period. If Isaac wants to send his personal security detail to Martha’s Vineyard, then he needs to get his presidential ass here. Got it?”

Agent Rios remained calm behind his sunglasses. ”Yes ma’am. I’ll be sure to let him know.”

Eva stormed down the street. Rios waited until she was nearly out of sight. Then he pursued her, keeping his distance.

Chesapeake Bay

The powerboat was closing the distance on Dex Jackson’s marlin boat.

“Cut the line,” Dex growled at LeBron in the same low, insisting tone Dex used on their Rottweiler at home when it misbehaved. LeBron let the Marlin reel line away from the pole’s spindle, undid his seat belts and pried himself from the sweat-soaked chair. The line on the reel soon reached its end. LeBron reached for the wire cutters to snip the line, but it was too late. The pole yanked out of its holder and flew into the boat’s wake.

“Dex?” Angie said, looking out at the powerboat. Her voice welled up with fear. “What is it?”

“The anchor!” she cried up to the cockpit, where her husband had already fired up the engines, and was trying to put distance between them and the other boat.

Dex put the boat in neutral and climbed back down. He shoved LeBron and Angie aside and began craning up the anchor. He had it into the boat in under a minute.

Angie picked up the binoculars and looked out at the oncoming powerboat, which was now barely two hundred yards out. She spotted two men in black wetsuits with M4s. “Dex,” she said, her voice shaky. “They have guns! Oh my God!”

He climbed back up to the cockpit and put the engines on full ahead. The boat suddenly jerked forward. Angie wasn’t braced for it. She plunged over the back of the boat and into the drink.

LeBron called to his father, who had his full attention on maneuvering the new boat that he was only now becoming familiar with. But over the roar of the surging engines, and the distraction of the fast-approaching vessel full of apparent assassins, he didn’t hear.

LeBron climbed up to the cockpit and threw the boat in neutral. “Mom’s overboard,” he said hysterically. “We have to go back.” By then she had drifted half a football field away.

Dex shifted the boat down to one-quarter ahead and made a U-Turn with his left hand. With his right, he trained his binoculars on the assassins. He saw a man with a Stinger missile and two others brandishing assault rifles.

They were so close now. Angie was halfway between the two vessels. Dex looked at the gunmen, and at his wife, and his son. Back and forth.

LeBron saw his father contemplating the unthinkable.

“Dad?” he said. “Dad!”

*

From the deck of the little power boat, and through the scope of his Stinger Missile launcher, Elvir Divac spotted the woman flailing in the cold Atlantic. She was halfway between them and Defense Secretary Jackson’s weekender. Elvir wiped the stinging salt from his cheeks. The pale Bosnian’s complexion was already sunburned.

“Hey,” he called up to Ali, his partner, in stilted Muskogee. “Slow down.”

Ali cut engines altogether. The boat steadied and Elvir took another look in the scope. Who was she? Secretary Jackson’s wife, maybe? Was she hurt? Could she swim?

He felt Ali’s narrow brown eyes glaring at him. “What are you waiting for?” he demanded. Ali had been increasingly nervous about getting caught for the past two weeks. “Fire the missile!”

Elvir found the boat in the viewfinder. He wished he had another weapon for this mission. The heat-seeking Stingers were best suited to shooting down aircraft, not watercraft. He switched the launcher to manual and disabled the infrared targeting system. He aimed, took a deep breath, and released the rocket.

The weapon took flight, zipping about thirty meters behind the vessel’s aft. He took another missile and reloaded the launcher. When he looked up again, an orange buoy shot from the Secretary’s boat, well short of the woman’s position in the water.

“Hurry!” Ali said.

He raised the second Stinger to his shoulder and steadied it. The waves were getting bigger now. It took him a few moments to find the horizon, and then the weekender, in the scope. When he did, he was astonished to see Secretary Jackson powering away at full speed away while his wife treaded water. She didn’t appear to be wearing a life vest, and the current was carrying her away from the float tube.

Ali saw her now too. “Forget her,” he said.

Elvir again fixed on the target. The message in the scope this time: **WARNING** TARGET OUT OF RANGE**

He fired anyway, raising the launcher’s nose. The projectile made a gentle arc over the water, falling well short and exploding at the water’s surface. He looked back at the woman. The current carried her toward them. She tried to swim against it, but it was no use.

Ali raised his rifle and advanced a round into the chamber.

“No,” Elvir said, putting his hand over the muzzle. “This was not the plan.”

Martha’s Vineyard

11:11 a.m.

Eva stepped into Mocha Mott’s and went to the counter. “Double espresso, dash of maple syrup, no foam.” She swiped her debit card and was quickly distracted — along with the wait staff — by the CNN broadcast on the wall-mounted television. The sound was muted, but a red ticker appeared at the bottom of the screen that read: JUST IN — REPORTS OF A CAR BOMB IN MONROE. HUNDREDS FEARED DEAD.”

The footage onscreen was an aerial shot, presumably from a helicopter, of what looked like an entire city block in ruins.

Eva felt someone watching her. She looked outside. Agent Rios stood across the street. Before she could get angry, her phone buzzed. She took it out of her purse. The display read “THREAT LEVEL RED. SECRET SERVICE EN ROUTE.”

What do you mean en route? Eva thought. I’m looking at him.

Outside Mocha Mott’s, Agent Rios read the emergency directives sent from the Homeland Security Acting Director Davis on his mobile phone. Rios’ orders were to leave the Vineyard immediately and rejoin the POTUS’ security detail, which was regrouping in Washington D.C.

This struck Rios as odd. For starters, he’d been told that morning that the POTUS was en route to Camp David, and in the event of an imminent threat, the POTUS was to enter the tunnels there and be transported via underground shuttle to Site R. He would absolutely not return to govern from Washington D.C. at a time like this. That would be contrary to the administration’s emergency plan.

Secondly, he was standing across the street from Eva Hudson, a sitting cabinet secretary and member of the National Security Council. She was fifth in line to the POTUS, just behind the Veep, Speaker of the House, President pro tempore and Secretary of State. Securing the top five in the line of succession was a well-understood priority during red status.