William Tyree - Line of Succession

“They don’t know the half of it yet,” General Farrell snorted.

General Wainewright hurried into the NMCC with his waifish assistant, Corporal Hammond, trailing behind him. The blast doors closed behind them and the officers sprang out of their chairs. Wainewright peered over his reading glasses at the group. “The TV goes off,” he said. “Status!”

Farrell began a sober tally of the morning’s events. His voice was permanently hoarse from four decades of chain smoking and barking out orders. “We have several concurrent, seemingly coordinated assassination attempts,” he began. “The Vice President is in critical condition: Unverified rocket attack on his car in Wyoming. Speaker of the House Bailey is believed dead: Car bombing in Monroe. Senator Thomas is believed dead: Blast at his vacation residence in Kennebunkport.”

The brass volleyed a dozen questions all at once. “When did the attacks begin?” someone shouted.

“This morning,” Farrell responded. “Between ten and eleven, and the situation is ongoing.”

“What do you mean coordinated?” came General Shufford’s voice over the speaker phone. Shufford was one of four Joint Chiefs, representing the Air Force, and had called in from a base in Europe.

Before Farrell could respond, the blast doors swooshed opened. The meeting’s latest arrival wore running shoes, black spandex leggings and a snug gray athletic shirt with GWU emblazoned across the chest. Her long raven hair was pulled back into a pony tail. She carried only a Blackberry.

Haley Ellis had been in downward dog position at her Sunday morning yoga class in Rock Creek Park when she received an NIC alert on her phone. It had taken her just seventeen minutes to make it to the Metro Center subway station and out to the Pentagon. Despite a rock star security clearance that provided access to nearly any government facility, the Pentagon MPs had — as they always did — hassled her at the security checkpoint, delaying her arrival by several more minutes as they pretended to confirm her identity.

Ellis was used to the outsider treatment. She was the Senior Liaison for Pentagon-White House Affairs at the National Intelligence Center (NIC), a position created by President Hatch to foster greater oversight of Pentagon operations. But while the White House referred to her as a liaison, the Pentagon brass regarded her as little more than a civilian snitch. This came despite the fact that Ellis was herself an Iraq War veteran who had led a platoon during some of the most dangerous fighting in Ramadi. A war wound had earned her a purple heart and successive desk jobs at the DIA, CIA and now the NIC.

General Farrell watched disdainfully as Ellis walked to the back of the room and began typing notes into her Blackberry. General Shufford’s voice resumed over the room speaker. “I asked what you meant by coordinated,” he repeated.

“All the victims,” Farrell replied, “were attacked shortly after returning to vacation homes or in transit. And far as we can tell, all the attacks occurred between eleven-hundred hours and eleven-hundred fifteen hours.”

The room erupted in side conversations. Farrell spoke over it, adding another to the tally: “A chopper has picked up Defense Secretary Jackson. He and his son are on their way to Bethesda Naval Hospital for evaluation. His wife’s status is unclear.”

“Has the POTUS been evacuated?”

“Waiting on status,” Farrell replied. “We have not heard from the President’s security detail.” The Vice-Chairman decided it was time to put Ellis on the spot. “Any news on your end, Miss Ellis?”

She looked up as the brass’ eyes fixed upon her. Ellis felt self-conscious of the perspiration marks on her yoga shirt, but she had already made several calls on the way over. “I talked to the First Team chief,” she said, referring to Special Agent Rios. “He wasn’t with the President and hadn’t heard from today’s detail.”

Wainewright’s lower left eyelid twitched. “Has Admiral Bennington been notified?” Admiral Bennington was the fourth Joint Chief, representing the Navy.

“Affirmative,” Bennington’s dour voice called out over the speakerphone.

A private entered behind Wainewright with a sealed envelope. His hands shook as he handed the message to Wainwright. The General opened and read the one-line message: MARINE ONE SHOT DOWN: POTUS BELIEVED KILLED.

There were no details. Wainewright calmly passed it to Farrell, who read it briefly, without showing any emotion, and turned to the private. “Who’s seen this?” he demanded.

“Myself and the duty officer in the ESC.”

“The media doesn’t have it?”

“No sir.”

Ellis beckoned to the messenger. “Bring the note here,” she said. “I need to see it.”

Wainewright gripped the messenger’s right arm, holding him in place. “Negative,” he told Ellis. “This one’s beyond even your security clearance.” He turned back to the messenger. “You’ll stay in my presence until MPs can escort you safely off-site.” Then he turned to Farrell. “Find that duty officer. Isolate him and anyone he’s had contact with. Shut down the whole ESC if you have to.”

“General,” Ellis said, “Are we suppressing casualty information?”

“Fact: the less our enemies know, the safer we are.” Wainewright turned to the group. “Confiscate all personal mobile devices in your units. The National Command Authority has been disrupted. The Joint Chiefs will assume temporary command of the Armed Forces.”

“You’ll need to explain that,” Ellis said. “Is there something I should know?”

“You said yourself that nobody’s heard from First Team. The Vice President is at best incapacitated. The House Speaker is deceased and the line of succession beyond him is not clear. Therefore the chain of command is not intact. We are running the show, Miss Ellis.”

General Farrell looked up at the Chairman, allowing himself a moment to admire his longtime friend’s resolve. Then he stood up, sticking to the well-rehearsed script. They had drilled this situation at least a hundred times. “Protocol requires moving to a secure location. Transport NCA communications staff to Rapture Run. Let’s execute.”

Ellis watched the brass rush toward the exits. “Excuse me, General,” she said, running after Wainewright. “I’m not familiar with the codename Rapture Run.”

Wainewright paused and glanced over his left shoulder. “Just go home, Miss Ellis. There will be no further need for your services.”

Corporal Hammond followed the General upstairs to his office. Like the rest of the staff, Hammond had never heard of Rapture Run. He had always assumed that they would be safe from attack in the NMCC, which had recently been reinforced to withstand the latest in bunker-busting missile technology.

Wainewright looked around the room and began rattling off a list of items to pack. “Laptop. Data cards. Three utility uniforms and five dress uniforms. Every item in my desk drawers. And those,” he said, pointing to two framed photos on his desk. The first was of the General himself standing atop a burned-out Iraqi tank during the first Iraq war. The other photo depicted a young man in his West Point graduation photo. Although the General had never talked about it, Hammond knew from the other staffers that the young man was Wainewright’s late son, who had been killed in action during a covert op somewhere in the Middle East. Hammond lingered on the photo for a moment. Packing family photos had an air of finality that made him uncomfortable. He wondered if the General knew something that he did not.

He wrapped the photo frames in soft cloth and packed them carefully but quickly between the General’s uniforms. Then he moved on to the other items. He was finished in less than a minute. He stood at the doorway with the General’s luggage, watching as Wainewright opened a transparent airtight display case on his desk that held a pair of antique optics.