William Tyree - Line of Succession

Secluded as the barracks were, Speers was astounded that neither the shots nor the shouting had awakened anyone there. Even so, he walked among the soldiers as if they were a den of sleeping rattlesnakes. He returned to Corporal Hammond’s bunk, knelt before it and slid his hands beneath the bed frame. There he found the briefcase full of confiscated cell phones. Speers opened it and located his phone among all the others. He realized he had no charger with him, so he quickly found two other phones of the same model and pulled the batteries from each.

As Speers closed the case, he heard footsteps behind him. He closed his eyes. He remained on his knees. His time was up.

“Won’t get a signal,” a whispered voice said. “Not down here.”

He turned and saw Major Dobbs, the CENTAF air traffic czar who had tipped him off about the President’s demise. But Dobbs didn’t look so friendly now. Although Speers had never been in a fight in his life, he often sized up other men by asking himself if he could take them down. Dobbs was a burly man who looked like he could manhandle just about anyone.

“Please, Major,” Speers whined softly. “This is more than just a phone. I have classified documents in here. For God’s sake, I work for the President.”

Dobbs leaned closer. “ Worked ,” he said. “You worked for the POTUS. He’s gone. He can’t help you now.” Dobbs exhaled a stinky breeze into Speers’ face. Speers tried not to throw up. “I’m the next officer on watch,” Dobbs said before turning away. “Come see me at oh-five-thirty.”

*

General Farrell stood watching as the MP pulled the slain family man’s body into a black body bag. Wainewright came up behind him, whistling so as not to spook either. He had seen the entire incident via camera from his quarters. He wasn’t concerned. It was to be expected.

“Report.” Wainewright’s request didn’t have anything to do with the dead man. He didn’t give a shit about the dead man. Wainewright was good about keeping his mind on his priorities. Farrell understood this.

“Abrams’ crew is rolling into Baltimore now,” Farrell replied as they walked through the command room. “They should have it pretty much done within an hour.”

“Good. And the withdrawals?”

They went into the adjoining conference room and shut the door behind them.

“Thirty C-130 transports landed in Kuwait City this morning,” Farrell said. “Ten more have already left Baghdad. Two strike units left Lebanon this morning. The secret bases in Israel bugged out this morning. The heavy armor-”

“There’s no time to pull out the armor. Destroy it and leave it in the sand. Syria opened up the border to Iranian armor divisions. There’s no turning back.”

Farrell lit a cigarette. “I’d feel better if we had some progress on the Allied Jihad situation.”

Wainewright pulled the cigarette from Farrell’s mouth and stamped it out. “Fact: elite Revolutionary Guard units are moving into Afpak right now. The Iranian Ambassador knows that if they don’t produce results within a week, the deal is off. We’ll have no choice but to send the Carrier Strike Group in to cut off the campaign in Israel.”

“How do we know the Iranians won’t seize the opportunity to invade Pakistan altogether?”

“We should be so lucky. Their economy can’t handle fighting a two-front war. As long as they keep the Allied Jihad busy for awhile, and give us the desalination technology, I’ll keep our end of the bargain.”

“You sure about that?”

“Trust me. We’re going to need the water.”

*

Speers’ stomach was a queasy ball of nerves as he entered the command room at oh-five-thirty on the dot, just as Major Dobbs had suggested. He clinched his last lollipop between his teeth. He had been rationing them.

Dobbs sat on the throne-like chair in the command room. Beside him, his deputy — a young Lieutenant who looked like he had been shaving for a year at most — talked through a list of bunker procedures. When Speers came into view, Dobbs turned to the Lieutenant and interrupted his monologue: “Take my shift, Lieutenant. Wainewright’s sending us offsite.”

The young Lieutenant looked puzzled. “Right now, sir? I wasn’t aware of a change in schedule.”

“We’re at DEFCON two,” Dobbs reminded him. “Information’s on a need-to-know basis. Get used to it.”

Dobbs led Speers toward the entrance. “Just go along with whatever I say,” Dobbs whispered. “You’ll live longer.”

They came to the cornfield entrance elevators. Two MPs stood before them with rifles held diagonally across their chests. Speers immediately recognized one as the MP who had gunned down the family man. “Authorization?” the MP asked, without even the pretense of respect.

“See these?” Dobbs said, pointing to the brass clusters on his lapels indicating his rank. “And these?” He pointed to a brass globe on his shirt pocket, adorned with an early model jet aircraft and Olympic-style laurels, signifying him as the CENTAF commander. “These are all the authorization I need.”

The MP smirked with an arrogance that surprised even Speers. “There are at least fifty officers down here with higher rank. And all of you still need a little yellow piece of paper with General Wainewright’s signature on it.”

Dobbs stepped into the MPs face, spitting as he spoke. “Choose your words carefully, Corporal, or I’ll have you court-martialed for insubordination to an officer.”

“Ulysses has deemed this a combat situation,” the other MP said as he launched into a well-rehearsed response: “During combat situations Ulysses troops are not subject to U.S. military law except those laws that are specifically expressed by the Joint Chiefs or the President. By order of General Wainewright, we are also authorized to enforce martial law upon pain of death, regardless of U.S. military rank.”

Dobbs stayed in the MP’s face, muttering obscenities in a low growl that struck Speers as particularly vile and abusive, even for the military. As Dobbs distracted the MP with his verbal assault, he slowly reached for his sidearm.

Speers cut in before it could devolve into more senseless violence: “I think I have what you need.” He produced the yellow signed authorization he had lifted from the officer on watch’s folder hours earlier. He had simply time-stamped it and filled in CLASSIFIED as the reason. Dobbs’ eyes were big, and his fingers still fondled the pistol-grip of his still-holstered.45. Speers sucked hard on his lollipop as the MP scrutinized the form.

“Have you arranged transport?” the MP said.

“It’s already on the pad,” Dobbs snapped.

At that, the MP switched on his radio and spoke into it: “This is two sixty. Can you confirm transport on the cornfield helipad?”

“Affirmative,” the radio voice chirped back. “The helipad is occupied.”

The MPs grudgingly moved aside so that Dobbs and Speers could enter the elevator. They did not look back as the doors closed behind them. Speers spotted the elevator’s surveillance camera and was careful not to smile or speak. He felt his ears pop as the elevator muscled its way up several hundred feet to the surface. When the doors finally swooshed open, Speers took in the smell of cornfields and felt dizzy with the rush of fresh air. Dobbs grabbed him by the arm and led him toward the clearing, where there was indeed already a helicopter on the pad, its rotors spinning against the yellowing eastern sky.

The pilot wore a bandana around his neck and, although it was only sunrise, sunglasses as well. He grinned and stretched out his hand. “Morning Major,” he said. “General coming with?”