William Tyree - Line of Succession

“Suffice to say, we’ll need you to swear in the next President of the United States within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”

Dillinger pounded a scrawny white fist on the table. “Are you dense? I’m asking you for names, General.”

Wainewright bristled, but managed to stay professional. “We’ve managed to maintain the National Command Authority, but due to the security situation, the planned model of Presidential succession just won’t meet the country’s needs.”

The Chief Justice shook his head. “I’m getting the impression that you brought me here to bless military control of the country.“

“Rest assured, the next POTUS will be a civilian ,” Wainewright assured him. “A sitting cabinet member. You have my word.”

“More bullshit. The fact that you won’t name this mythical future leader is most disconcerting. Yes, most disconcerting indeed. Sounds like a black market auction, with the job going to the highest bidder.”

“Presidential succession isn’t a constitutional matter,” Wainewright said, aping what he’d heard Speers say earlier.

“If you’re going to flagrantly disrespect the laws this country has created, why are you wasting my time?”

Wainewright grinned. He thrived on this type of banter. Especially when he held all the cards. “You’re the high priest, sitting in your temple of truth and justice with your fellow disciples. People respect you. If we’ve got any hopes of keeping the country together, I need you to swear in the new President.”

Dillinger considered his options. The General was technically right. The Presidential Succession Act had come out of Congress, not the Constitution, and as of now, the Legislative Branch had no say over who took the throne. And if the situation was as bad as the General suggested, there could be riots, economic failure, anarchy. He had no intention of taking orders from the military, but on the other hand, if the High Court refused to participate in the process, they’d be permanently weakened. If anything, withdrawing the Court from the process might further fuel the country’s burgeoning police state.

“A sitting cabinet member,” Dillinger repeated.

“Yes your Honor.”

Dillinger knew that this was the very kind of back room deal that changed civilizations. He only hoped that this was the lesser of two evils. “I’d make you swear on a stack of Bibles, but everyone in Washington knows you’re an atheist.”

Wainewright laughed, took Dillinger’s hand and shook it. He had just cut the second most important deal of his career; The first had been persuading President Hatch to give him authority over Ulysses contracts.

*

Corporal Hammond led Dex Jackson down a low, dark corridor, lit with blue LED lamps, that reminded him of the nuclear submarine that he had served on after his graduation from Annapolis.

Hammond stopped and opened a small door to his right, which was much better lit.

“I’m afraid these are your quarters, sir. It’s not much, but I’ll get you some clean clothes.”

Dex went inside, regarded the four walls, bunk, the small desk with a chair on either side, the video screen and the airplane-sized bathroom. He sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands. He was exhausted, but for the first time in his life, he feared sleep. Dex knew that when he closed his eyes, he would see his wife Angie flailing in the Atlantic.

“Dex,” someone said. It was General Wainewright, standing in the doorway. “Got a sec?”

The room seemed much smaller as the General shut the door behind him and sat in the plastic desk chair. Dex had never been alone with the General, and he was awed by how much oxygen his presence seemed to require. The four stars on each shoulder of Wainewright’s uniform did not seem nearly enough.

“I’m concerned about LeBron,” Wainewright said without preamble. “He’s blaming you for Angie’s death.”

Dex thought on this. “Well of course he is.”

“That’s between you and your conscience. Bottom line, we can’t let him go on record saying you left Angie for dead.”

We can’t let him go on record. Dex thought about that statement for a few seconds. He didn’t understand who the General meant by “We” — the Joint Chiefs? The Pentagon? And Dex took offense at anyone but him trying to parent his child. Still, this was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs he was talking to. And for now, Wainewright seemed positively Czar-like. America didn’t know it, but Wainewright was running the country from a secret bunker that he didn’t even know the coordinates of, and he could do anything he wanted. This was no time to pick a battle.

“Don’t worry,” Dex said. “I’ll talk to LeBron.”

“Do yourself a favor,” Wainewright said. “Let him sleep it off. Then let the chaplain or the staff psychologist have a crack at him. You’ll have your hands full here with us.”

Wainewright slapped Dex on the back and stepped into the corridor, where he spotted the glowing cherry of General Farrell’s cigarette. He grabbed the smoke from Farrell’s mouth and stomped it into the floor. “Don’t be such a dinosaur,” he chastised him.

They walked down the four-foot wide corridor single file. As always, Wainewright walked in front. He had been one year Farrell’s senior at West Point, and had remained one step ahead of him his entire career. The nation’s second-most powerful military man was happy in his friend’s shadow. Farrell regarded himself as merely a great military mind, but thought Wainewright to be a true visionary, as evidenced in the way he had deftly outmaneuvered the President and DOD to feed Ulysses USA, his very own private army. Over the next week, they would have their chance to return America to its former greatness.

“The Allies are demanding communication with the POTUS,” Farrell said. His voice was raspier than usual from shouting orders in the command room.

“Soon,” Wainewright said confidently. He had planned out every eventuality of the operation months earlier, storing them in a virtual decision tree that he updated on his mobile device every hour. So far, they were doing remarkably well. The fact that Eva Hudson was alive was the only significant glitch. But even that was something that could be remedied in short order.

His counterpart wasn’t satisfied with Wainewright’s pat answer. “The general public is starting to panic,” he said. “They’re already stockpiling food and gas in Los Angeles and there are reports of militias on alert in Michigan and Texas. Some people on the East Coast are already lining up outside banks.”

Wainewright took Lincoln’s opera glasses from his pocket and clutched them as he walked.

“These remind me of what not to do,” Wainewright said.

“What’s that?”

“Deviate from the plan. Fact: after Booth shot Lincoln, he jumped from the Presidential box onto the stage. He was shouting ‘death to all tyrants.’”

“He was showboating.”

“That too. But at the core he was deviating from the plan.” Wainewright stopped as he imagined the scene at Ford’s Theatre a hundred and fifty some-odd years earlier, closing his eyes as he spoke. “Booth broke his leg with that stunt. He should have escaped out the back. It was dark and there was a horse waiting for him. Nobody would’ve seen his face. He could’ve led the resistance, just as he’d envisioned, and taken over Washington while the Union was reeling from the loss. All the pieces were in place. Security in the Capitol was light. Secretary Seward was incapacitated from his own stab wounds. Johnson was a closeted Confederate and was ready to take power. The timing was right. If only…” The General opened his eyes and stared at his shoes as he thought about his own plan. He looked up at Farrell, who had turned to listen to his ramblings. “You see where I’m going with this?”