William Tyree - Line of Succession

Wainewright grinned. “Then demonstrate that you’ll take our advice seriously.”

“If you mean Yemen…” Dex said in a near whisper.

“Dex,” Wainewright said firmly, “understand that we don’t need your permission to do this. We’re calling the shots right now, and nobody on God’s green earth could stop us.”

“But we’d rather work as a team,” Farrell told Dex. “We’d be the brains, you’d be the face. Offer’s on the table.”

Dex shook Wainewright’s hand, then Farrell’s. “I’ll support the strike,” he said. “But we’d better have something credible to take to the press.”

Farrell smiled and dragged on his cigarette.

Yemen

Five men sat around a campfire, telling jokes. The camp smelled like goat dung and saffron-spiced stew. There was absolutely no wind.

At night they cordoned the camp off with temporary fencing that they transported on a sled pulled by a pair of horses. The fencing allowed the children to play at night without their mothers chasing after them. It also allowed the herders to sleep without worrying about predators getting to the flock.

Suddenly three of the horses trotted out from behind a canvas tent. They were spooked. One of the men stood up, clutching a Kalashnikov rifle and gently shooed them away with one hand. Then more horses came through camp, picking up speed as they approached the perimeter. They were out of control. The man with the Kalashnikov aimed at the first horse as it leaped over the fence. Not because he wanted to shoot it. But because he hoped to prevent the others from following it into the black yonder.

The other men shined their lights in the opposite direction, looking for the predator that had made the animals restless. There was no sign of anything.

They heard the high-pitched screech an instant before everything vanished in a flash of white light.

Fort Campbell

10:15 a.m.

The base’s Joint Ops media center was a cramped trailer with a low ceiling and the decor of a charter school library. Eva found Carver there at his laptop. He was hooked into the CIA Ethernet, which, for security reasons, still required a regular Ethernet cable. Eva glimpsed an Oklahoma State University faculty dossier on his monitor before Carver sensed her presence and clicked to a safety screen.

Eva stood behind him with her hips cocked to the side. “Anything I should know about?”

Carver tried to hide his annoyance. “No, Madam Secretary.”

“You do realize who you’re talking to.”

Carver figured that given the high level assassinations, Eva was now the second or third most powerful person in the United States, depending on whether the Vice President survived his wounds. But he had sworn his silence and loyalty not only to Speers, but to the President himself. “With all due respect,” he told her, “you’re a paper billionaire.”

“You’ll have to spell that out for me.”

“Regardless of what glorious title you might inherit, you’re not at Site R with the President right now. That really limits your influence.”

Eva pulled up a plastic chair and sat across from him. “I’m going to tell you something that I haven’t told anyone. The President’s broadcast last night was shot at least two years ago.”

Carver revealed nothing in his expression. “Go on.”

She switched on her phone and showed Carver a satellite image of a farming area on West Virginia’s eastern border with Maryland. “See that mountain?” she said, pointing to a digital GPS marker she’d placed there. “Last night my helicopter was hovering right over this area, where Rapture Run is supposedly located.”

“I’m still listening” Carver said as he memorized the longitude and latitude.

“Two years ago, Congressman Bailey presented a bill that would protect this area as a wildlife preserve.”

“That must happen all the time,” Carver said, although his mind was racing with possibilities. He already knew that Congressman Bailey was connected to both Lieutenant Flynn and SECDEF Jackson.

“Not like this,” Eva said. “I just pulled up Congressman Bailey’s bill. It had a rider that contracted Ulysses to completely seal off the wildlife preserve with a massive fence. We’re talking a border fence. Like the one we’re building between us and Mexico.”

“Typical pork barrel spending,” Carver said dismissively, although he knew better.

“This is different. Rapture Run was built without the knowledge of the Security Council. I can’t even say for sure if the President knew. Yet Congressman Bailey and obviously someone high up in Ulysses knew that a military installation was going to be built there.”

“And then Bailey turns up dead,” Carver said, deciding to give Eva some validation. He wasn’t about to tell Eva about Lieutenant Flynn and the missing Stingers. Not yet, anyhow. Until he could speak to Speers, or the President, it was way too early to trust anyone.

Rapture Run Cafeteria

Deep beneath the cornfield that masked the bunker’s very existence, the Rapture Run cafeteria operated as if it had always been there, with eight cooks standing behind a counter and a lunchroom that could seat a hundred at a time. Speers grabbed a tray, but he wasn’t here to eat. He was here for information. He inserted himself into line next to Corporal Hammond, who was managing two trays of food. “So,” Speers said. “How long you think we can stay down here before Wainewright starts eating the enlisted men?”

Corporal Hammond eyed the gut that hung over Speers’ belt. “I’d say we’ve got more to fear from you than him.”

A dozen servicemen stood in the chow line on either side of them, each shuffling along with assembly-line precision. Speers and Hammond first came to a pile of egg salad that looked positively regurgitated. Speers covered his mouth to avoid taking in the odor.

“Guess you never had to eat in a mess hall,” Corporal Hammond said.

“Once. I went with the President to Camp Pendleton on a campaign stop. We ate with the Marines.”

Hammond smirked. “Didn’t I see that on TV?”

“Oh I’m sure every conservative in America saw the President puke on the base commander. In slow-motion, no less.”

Hammond put a double helping of the egg salad on one of the trays. “The General loves this stuff,” he said.

“So,” Speers said, feeling a bit of camaraderie build between him and the Corporal, “Is the Joint Chief’s office a good career stop?”

“Big time,” Hammond said. “Plus, it beats combat. I like my arms, fingers, legs. I like to keep ‘em attached to my body.”

The first cook looked at Hammond and said, “ Tofurkey or Soy burger ?” Hammond took both and advanced in line. Speers rapped his fist on the aluminum surface and said, “Hit me.”

He caught up with Hammond, who was waiting for sweet potatoes. He edged close to him. “Y’know, I’ve been with the President since he was Governor.”

“It’s gotta hurt,” Hammond said.

“General Wainewright seems to be taking it well, don’t you think?”

Hammond kept his gaze on the food in front of him as he neared the salad. “The General can’t afford to get emotional. He’s just doing his job.”

“We both know he’s doing a little more than just his job.”

“ Make time, Corporal !” the cook scolded. Hammond took two of the little Caesar salads and bolted for the dessert area. Speers kept on his heels, his tie brushing the pair of chevrons on the Corporal’s sleeve.

“I like you,” Speers lied, “so I’m going to give you a chance to save your ass.”

Hammond turned around and peered up at the Chief. “Look around. I’d say you’re the one in hostile territory.”