William Tyree - Line of Succession

He kept to the shadows until he reached his own neighborhood. He cut through a neighbor’s driveway and jumped a fence into Ms. Tenningclaus’ back yard. Hers was a three-story brownstone directly across from Speers’ condo. He went to her back door, finding the hidden key under the rock where Ms. Tenningclaus had left it for him.

The odor of soiled kitty litter hit him instantly. The cats wailed and emerged from the shadows to rub with feverish intensity against his pant legs. They soon turned, hissing savagely when Speers tried to pet them. By the amber glow of the nightlight in the kitchen, the Chief saw that their bowls were empty. He fed them and poured some fresh milk before seeking anything for himself.

Mrs. Tenningclaus’ fridge was empty except for a granola bar and a Mountain Dew. Speers took them and went upstairs and — careful not to turn on any lights — perched himself by the attic window. His own condo was directly across the street, and he watched his kitchen window closely as he ate. His windows were dark except for the faint amber hue of the stove light in his kitchen. Initially, he saw no cause for alarm. He began to yearn for his own bed, his own clothes, his own shower.

But he was patient. He chewed slowly. He drank slowly. Some three minutes later, the light in his window changed ever so slightly. To Speers’ astonishment, he watched as his fridge opened. He could make out the silhouette of a man. That man is waiting to kill me, Speers thought. The Grim Reaper. And he’s raiding my fridge.

Speers retreated to the safety of Ms. Tenningclaus’ guest bathroom and took a long shower by candlelight. He was tired of running. But he had no choice. He couldn’t stay here. He noticed a used razor sitting in an empty soap dish.

It took him fifteen minutes to erase the Van Dyke goatee he had worn since college. He then found some scissors and went to work on his hair, cutting it into short, choppy locks. He slid the shower curtain open and gazed at himself in the mirror. He didn’t recognize himself.

When he was finished, he used baby powder talc from head to toe and tended to his abused feet with Aloe Vera gel and bandages. For the red welts from his chigger bites, he found calamine lotion in the medicine cabinet.

Ms. Tenningclaus’ husband had died less than two years earlier, at the age of sixty-three. When Speers went to the master bedroom, he was relieved to find Mr. Tenningclaus’ wardrobe still completely intact. Speers pulled on a pair of too-large Khaki chinos and cinched them tightly at the waist with a leather belt. He went commando, for he could not stand the thought of wearing a dead man’s underwear. Then he donned one of Mr. Tenningclaus’ classic navy polo shirts, which fit perfectly. Shoes were not an option — Mr. Tenningclaus was a size 12, two full sizes larger than his own. Stuck with the footwear he had come in with, he wrapped the beaten soles with duct tape from Mrs. Tenningclaus’ hall closet.

He sat briefly on the edge of the mattress to plot his next move. His eyes burned. He closed them for a moment. That was all it took for exhaustion to overcome him. He slipped quickly into REM sleep, falling into the recurring nightmare that had haunted him for two years — a military coup in the United States that cost the President his life.

Speers’ eyelids snapped open twelve minutes later. One of the cats was curled up on his chest. He petted it to confirm it was real. Then he touched his face and felt the clean shaven skin. He got up and went to the window to look across the street at his condo. The assassin had turned on the stove light and sat at the kitchen table, wearing green latex gloves, flipping through the August issue of National Journal .

PART IV

Over Kentucky

Wednesday 12:09 a.m.

Agent Carver felt the Gulfstream G650 bank hard to the south. They had been in the air just a few minutes. He rose from his seat and went to the cockpit entrance, where two Air Force pilots were snuggled into black leather seats, surrounded by an instrument panel and console that wrapped around them on both sides like a tightly tailored jacket. It was an impressive but cramped, womb-like enclosure that was a far cry from the roomy luxury in the main cabin. Unlike the civilian Gulfstream jets, the military version had been retrofitted with seating for two additional crew members directly behind the pilots. Carver sat and stared out the two-piece curved cockpit window at a layer of wispy clouds gleaming in the moonlight.

“Evening, gentlemen,” he said. “What’s our ETA?”

The co-pilot, who looked nearly as weary as Carver, turned and shook his head. “We don’t even know our destination. CENTCOM is drip-feeding us new coordinates every fifteen minutes.”

A hand on Carver’s shoulder broke his irritation. It was O’Keefe. He could smell the sharp bite of caffeine emanating from her pores. “Eva would like to see us.”

Carver turned and followed O’Keefe back through the cabin, where Elvir and Angie Jackson were both asleep in their seats. In the back of the plane, Eva and Colonel Madsen were gathered in an airborne office with an actual desk and computer.

“Sit down,” Eva told them. “This is going to be a difficult conversation. I know we’ve all had our suspicions, but I can tell you now that they were correct. The President is dead.”

The news wasn’t a surprise, but Eva’s composure was. “And you’ve been sitting on this for how long?” Carver said.

“The Chief told me this morning. But frankly, I was reluctant to believe him. He said he had only heard it secondhand. General Farrell confirmed the news about an hour ago.”

O’Keefe spoke up. “So what happens now?”

“I’m next in line,” Eva said with no trace of pleasure in her voice. “The Joint Chiefs have established a secure operations base at Rapture Run. They’re going to swear me in.”

Carver’s eyes got wide. “Or at least that’s what they told you.”

Rapture Run

Air Force fighter pilot Alexandro Chuy Rodriquez, whose call sign was Bearcat, was led down the blue-lit corridor leading to the senior officers’ quarters. He had not seen the light of day in the four weeks since he had unwittingly killed eight Ulysses soldiers in a friendly fire incident in Indonesia. Friendly fire incidents were an unfortunate reality of war, but Captain Rodriquez had hardly been without fault: he had been flying while under the influence of locally grown opium. In the weeks since the incident he had been made to describe the events over and over again, beginning with his shooting the drug into his buttocks before takeoff and ending with his air-to-ground missile slamming into an American transport.

The Ulysses MPs escorted him into Wainewright’s quarters, where the General’s eyes seared through him from behind the bunker’s largest desk. By now Rodriquez had grown quite used to constant hostility from his fellow soldiers. He braced himself for more of the same.

General Farrell sat in a corner of the room, holding a very small computer. Rodriquez saluted out of protocol, but he did not really know who Wainewright or Farrell were. The Joint Chiefs operated from such lofty heights that they were only recognizable to soldiers that closely followed Washington politics. And after all, Rodriquez had been in the presence of Four-Star Generals before — the military seemed to have hundreds of them. He had to admit, however, that he had never seen so many decorations on anyone’s uniform.

“Been a rough month for you,” Wainewright began in a voice that was almost sympathetic. Rodriquez showed no emotion and, as his attorney had advised him, spoke humbly and robotically in hopes of receiving a light sentence. “I have no excuses, sir. I am ready to be held accountable for my actions.”