William Tyree - Line of Succession

Carver lifted the dust cover off an ancient incline weight bench. Like all the equipment in the once-flooded gym, its legs were badly rusted. Carver figured it would still support a lightweight like Elvir Divac.

He placed the still-comatose prisoner on the incline weight bench. His hospital gown hung open, revealing post-surgery bandages around his thigh and groin. He cuffed the prisoner’s wrists to a barbell mounted on the rack above his head. Two hundred pounds in free weights were mounted on either side.

He poured ice water on Elvir’s face. The native Bosnian, who was still under general anesthesia, coughed in his sleep but didn’t wake. Carver had anticipated this. He pulled a syringe from his pocket, raised the hem of Elvir’s gown and injected his prisoner in the thigh. The serum was a favorite among CIA interrogators.

Elvir came suddenly awake, screaming at operatic volume, his eyes dilated like big black saucers. He struggled mightily against his handcuffs, nearly dislodging the barbell from the rack over his chest.

Carver leaned over the barbell and looked down at him. “What do you think of our wake-up serum? I’ve heard the sensation is like falling from a skyscraper.”

Elvir tried to spit. His mouth was too dry.

“Tell me who sold you the Stingers,” Carver said. “Then you can sleep. Promise. I’ve got a drug for that too.”

Elvir muttered something in Bosnian.

“Drop the act,” Carver said. “I know you understand English. We have your file. You were born in Bosnia. Crossed enemy lines and joined the U.N. Forces during the war in Croatia. Applied for amnesty in the U.S. First you were denied, then they made you a deal — citizenship in exchange for five years in the Army. After 9/11, the Army was looking for anyone who spoke Arabic. They put you in Special Forces in Afghanistan. Then six months in Iraq. You were discharged for battle fatigue syndrome. Benefits paid crap.”

“You like the sound of your own voice,” Elvir said in English.

“Chime in at any time.”

“My attorney’s name is Thomas Myers. He lives in Fairfax.”

Carver pulled a pair of dental pliers from his pocket. He had bought the pliers, along with some other medical supplies, from a subway station sale in Tokyo, where a vendor sold enamel scrapers right alongside kitchen knives. At-home dentistry struck Carver as somewhat bizarre in a westernized country. Carver had always assumed fear of the dentist was a worldwide phenomenon. The thought of an untrained family member doing it was even scarier.

“I’m going to ask you again,” Carver told Elvir. “Lies cost one molar each. Ask for an attorney again, and it’ll cost you one of those beautiful front incisors.”

*

Eva entered the 10-digit login Colonel Madsen had given her into the computer. She was immediately launched into a video conference session. General Farrell appeared onscreen. Although they had been to dozens of Security Council meetings together, this was the first time Eva had looked him square in the face. His teeth were yellower than she remembered. The President had once said that Farrell was a hero during the 1980s invasion of Panama, but he said very little at the Security Council meetings. Mostly he seemed to be Wainewright’s yes man.

“Eva!” Farrell exclaimed as if he were happy to see her.

“General.”

“You look a little worse for wear.”

“You really know how to charm the ladies.”

“Word is you’ve got the brass at Fort Campbell on bended knee,” he said. “They’re calling you Queen Eva.”

“I’d say what they call you, but the FCC might revoke my video conference privileges.”

Farrell’s face fell. ”Madam Secretary, we’re reconvening the Security Council in a few hours. We need you at Rapture Run.”

Eva had reason to be suspicious. Angie Jackson was in the infirmary and she didn’t know who to trust. ”I’m afraid my hands are full here, General.”

The General didn’t hide his exasperation. “Eva, don’t make me spell this out on video conference.” Eva put on her best poker face. She stared straight ahead, saying nothing. “Fine,” Farrell finally snapped. “You must have heard about the POTUS by now. You’re next in line. We need you here with your team ASAP so we can begin the transition.”

There, he had said it. They wanted to swear her in. She was going to be the next President of the United States. “General, you can imagine how that sounds. I’ve been completely stonewalled for two days. You can imagine how it looks from here.”

“Paranoia is understandable. The truth is, we don’t know who to trust. It took some time for us to clear you.”

“Clear me?”

“Everyone has been re-screened. We think there’s someone high up within the Pentagon working against U.S. interests. We feel you’ll be safest here. My personal plane is landing at Fort Campbell as we speak to bring you to Rapture Run.”

“I’m not entirely comfortable with the idea of going to a bunker that was built without Security Council authorization. I suggest we meet at the White House instead.”

Farrell shook his head. “Out of the question. It’s a security risk. Until we find the conspirators, the government will operate from Rapture Run.”

Eva shook her head. “I’ve assembled a very effective Joint Operations task force right here.”

“You really have no choice. Are you really going to make me send the Secret Service to extract you?”

“I haven’t accepted the job.”

The General didn’t hesitate. “If you’re not up to the job, Madam Secretary, Dex Jackson is.”

She sighed. She wasn’t about to concede the country to the likes of Jackson. “Very well. I’ll be bringing my team.”

“And another thing…We’d like you to bring Angie Jackson.” Eva’s poker face betrayed her. How could they know about that? “I’m sure she’d like to see her son. He’s here with Dex.”

The video screen cut to black. Eva ran her fingers through her hair. She picked up her desk phone and dialed the infirmary. The Doc answered. “Get the prisoner ready to travel,” she said.

The Doc was silent for a moment. “Madam Secretary, I was told he was with you.”

Hagerstown, Maryland

7:32 p.m.

The Greyhound Bus Station had been a hub for Hagarstown’s homeless population ever since the local government started issuing free “Go West” vouchers. The vouchers, which provided free one-way bus tickets to Los Angeles, San Francisco and Phoenix, were the principal means by which Maryland sought to solve its homeless problem. The program was a miserable failure. As word of the vouchers spread, Hagarstown quickly became the hottest homeless destination on the East Coast.

Margaret Howland drove her truck into the Greyhound lot. Her headlights panned slowly across the dozens of hungry, unshaven faces. She rolled her window down. “Anybody seen a guy named Nico?”

“Hey lady,” a veteran in a fungus-tainted Army uniform yelled. “I’ve got a bus ticket with your name on it. L.A.’s beautiful this time of year.”

“God bless you,” Madge called back diplomatically. The truck’s headlights finally found Nico’s clear-framed eyeglasses and thin lips and slight chin. He stepped out from the curb wearing ill-fitting khakis, a gray t-shirt and blue sneakers that he had found at Goodwill that afternoon. He opened the truck’s passenger door and took in the sight of her. She wore the same size-fourteen floral print blouse she had worn during her last visit to the prison. Her hair was up in a bun. And as usual, she had not tweezed her eyebrows and her nails were unpainted. She was just the way Nico liked them — plain, round and unpretentious.