William Tyree - Line of Succession

“Thank you, Colonel,” Eva said as Madsen sat down. “Everyone, I’d like to introduce NSA case officers Carver and O’Keefe. Carver is formerly of CIA counter-terrorism and will be leading the investigation.”

“With all due respect,” Carver said, “This is news to me, Madam Secretary. Agent O’Keefe and I are engaged in a classified operation that reports directly to the White House.”

Eva folded her arms across her chest. “The White House?” she said. “To whom specifically?”

Carver was afraid to name the President, and not just because Eva was the President’s not-so-secret girlfriend. The investigation was strictly off-the-grid.

“Well?” Eva said.

“We report to Chief of Staff Julian Speers,” Carver replied.

“Have you had direct contact with Julian in the past twelve hours?”

“No ma’am.”

“I’ll be honest,” Eva said. “We don’t know where the Chief of Staff is now. He hasn’t responded to calls. Considering the state of emergency we’re in, I’ll take full responsibility for the disclosure of your classified mission. Now I’ll give you a chance to transfer operational details to me in private.”

She excused Colonel Madsen and his staff. They rose uncertainly and began filing out. O’Keefe leaned close to Carver, whispering in his ear. “Are you sure we can trust her?”

“No,” Carver said, “but the fact that she dismissed the brass is probably a pretty good sign that we should throw her a bone or two.”

Eva tapped the table with her pen. “Before we get off on the wrong foot, I need you to explain why Nico Gold is on my base.”

Carver was caught off guard. He was used to getting his way, and it was clear that Eva was significantly more hands-on than Julian. “Nico is a specialist in rare languages as well as computer…”

“I’m painfully aware of Nico’s qualifications. I’m asking how a notorious international criminal found his way onto this base.”

Carver didn’t care how hot Eva was. He didn’t like anyone baiting him. “Again, his skill set…”

“Let’s get some history out of the way,” Eva said. “When I was Executive Director of the IMF, Nico Gold hacked into our systems and drained our coffers of billions. I wasted two years of my life chasing him in some of the world’s most unpleasant countries. We finally caught him in Syria, where he was living with a group of Iranian dissidents and learning Farsi. I pushed to prosecute him in Saudi Arabia, where he would’ve gotten the death penalty. I was overruled.”

Carver’s neck grew hot. He had done his homework. He was quite familiar with Eva and Nico’s tangled past, but never thought this operation would by on anyone’s radar. “Nico Gold isn’t politically convenient,” Carver said, “but he solved in one day what our agents couldn’t crack in a year.”

Eva considered this for a moment. ”Fine. I’ll allow you to use him while we’re in crisis mode. But whatever deal you made, know I’ll break it when this is over.”

Rapture Run

Julian Speers walked through the cavernous command room and lingered between two rows of workstations occupied by eight soldiers on each side. He pretended to look for a network printer — General Wainewright had given him some bullshit assignment to draft legal documents regarding military power during martial law — but he was really just snooping. He looked over the shoulder of a Ulysses communications specialist and saw satellite imagery of several Iranian armor brigades. A massive formation trucking across Syrian territory toward Israel.

Speers leaned so close to the specialist that he could smell the man’s cucumber-scented shaving cream. “Is that for real?” he said. “I mean, that’s not some war game, right?”

“Oh it’s real,” the specialist confirmed a little too eagerly.

Syria didn’t even border Iran. Had Iran sent armor through Turkey or Iraq to get to Syria, it would’ve been an international incident. The fact that nobody knew about it had to mean that Iran had been airlifting its tank battalions into Syria quietly for months, and with Syria’s full cooperation.

And there was only one reason Syria would allow Iran to build up such a massive force in its territory — to eliminate a common enemy.

Then the Specialist turned and gave Speers the once-over, and seeing his civilian clothes, said, “Interrogative: should you be here, sir?”

Speers straightened up. “I sent a document to a printer called V11XT. Any ideas?”

The specialist pointed to a large multi-function machine near the Con, where General Wainewright sat on an elevated throne of steel.

Speers found his print job incomplete due to a paper jam. As he cracked open the machine, General Farrell and Dex Jackson converged on Wainewright’s perch at the same time. Speers decided to linger at the machine and see if he could pick up anything juicy.

“Get any shuteye?” he heard Wainewright ask Dex.

“Nah. I heard Fort Campbell debunked the Allied Jihad tape. That set my mind off on all sorts of tangents.”

“Nonsense!” Wainewright shouted. “Fact: Faruq Ahmed was Yemeni, for chrissake, and we have evidence that he personally carried out the suicide attempt on Speaker Bailey.”

“That’s bunk,” Dex shot back. “Our embeds within the Allied Jihad say they never heard of the guy.”

Speers loitered a little too long at the printer. Wainewright made him, shooting a glare so cold that the Chief of Staff’s chin quivered. He tapped Farrell and Dex and pulled them into an adjoining room. Wainewright frowned at Speers through the Plexiglas before frosting the glass.

He turned his attention back to Dex. “We have proof,” Wainewright said now that they were alone. “The suicide tape.”

“How’s that?” The corners of Dex’s mouth and the corners of his eyelids succumbed to gravity’s pull. He wore every bit of his trauma on his face.

“Fact: we have a tape made by the Monroe suicide bomber, Faruq Ahmed. He says he speaks for the Allied Jihad. We handed it over to CNN, and they’re running it every fifteen minutes.”

Farrell lit up another cigarette and held it between his thumb and middle finger. “And we’ve located some targets,” he said. “In Yemen. Suspected Allied Jihad cell. The public wants this.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning we’re going to take out the target. The American people need this.”

Dex’s face tightened. “Since when do we kill to make the public feel good?”

Wainewright sat at the table and folded his hands before him.

“Dex, the country is in an unprecedented crisis. We need leadership, and there’s no clear line of succession. We’re prepared to make you the next President of the United States.”

Dex leaned back in his chair and took in the proposition. His heart was flapping within his chest at breakaway speed, but he managed to mask his exuberance as he spoke. “What makes you so sure I’d want the job?”

Farrell laughed with abandon. “What do you take us for? We all heard that audio file going around congress during the last election.”

Dex looked up. “What audio file?”

Farrell was enjoying this. “The recording of a certain telephone conversation…” He paused, enjoying seeing Dex squirm. “…featuring a certain Defense Secretary calling the GOP Committee Chair, probing about support for a Presidential run.”

Dex’s face turned red. “So I’m ambitious,” he admitted. “I was critical of the President’s policies. That’s no secret.”

“This would be a chance to be your own man for a change. Do things your own way.”

Dex didn’t trust Farrell, and that went double for Wainewright. But he had always wanted the Presidency, and this administration’s incompetence in foreign policy had made him want it more than ever. Dex hesitated for a moment longer, if only to think about the most graceful way to say I do. “If called,” he uttered lamely, “I will serve.”