William Tyree - Line of Succession

“The President is dead.”

Rios spun around once on his heels and punched a side of frozen beef hanging from the ceiling. “I knew it! I knew it, man!”

“We don’t have much time. Trust me when I say that more people will die unless you get me in to see Dex Jackson.”

Rios, still reeling from the news, shook his massive head. “Doesn’t make any sense.” His thoughts turned to the men he gunned down on Martha’s Vineyard. The smell of gunpowder was still fresh in his senses.

“Hector, did you hear me? I need to see Dex.”

The frozen beef swung into the freezer sidewall as Rios pummeled it once more. “There’s a half dozen agents between the kitchen and his room.”

“Then you’ll have to bring Dex to me.”

*

Jack McClellan, the graying agent who stood on watch outside Dex’s Willard Hotel suite, was less than a year from retirement. He had survived four administrations. He had also survived a gunshot from a would-be assailant during George W. Bush’s presidency. The failed assassination attempt never made the press, thanks to media suppression from the CIA.

For a while after the incident, McClellan had been taken off security detail because there were questions about his ability to shake symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder. He’d only made it back to the POTUS rotation this year. Even so, it was more of a retirement present. The other agents were careful never to leave him alone on duty.

Over the past three days, Agent McClellan’s worst fears were all coming back to him. First, the high-level assassinations. Then that sketchy pre-recorded video of the President. Then the rumor that First Team hadn’t reported in. A buddy guarding some high value targets at the Raven Rock bunker had told him off the record that POTUS had never showed there. Beyond spooky.

His earpiece crackled. “Agent Rios coming up.”

The elevator tone sounded and the doors swooshed open. Agent Rios stepped out the floor pushing a room service cart full of covered trays.

“What,” McClellan said, “Secret Service delivers food now? Where’s the room service guy?”

“I was told no visitors.” Although Rios was technically McClellan’s boss, the elder agent didn’t always treat him with appropriate respect. For the most part, Rios allowed McClellan his ego. He had earned it.

McClellan lifted one of the platters and regarded a plate of Maryland crab cakes. He looked back at Rios and shook his head in disbelief.

“I took a bullet for Bush Forty-Three,” he said, “and now they expect me to be an errand boy? I refuse to take this crap.”

“Take a break,” Rios said. “I’ll do it.”

Agent Rios knocked on the suite door and stood directly in front of the peephole so that Secretary Jackson would recognize him. Rios pushed the cart past Agent McClellan, then past Dex, who was clad in a white bathrobe, and closed the door behind him.

“We didn’t order room service,” Dex said as he gazed up at the six-foot-ten secret service agent. LeBron slept behind him on the couch in front of the TV.

“If you’ll please just sign this,” Rios said. He took the black folder from the cart and presented the check. Dex pulled his reading glasses from his bathrobe pocket and saw the hand-scrawled note: “YOUR WIFE IS ALIVE.” He looked at Rios over the eyeglass frames. His pupils darted from side to side like fidgety tadpoles. He re-read the note. YOUR WIFE IS ALIVE.

Dex went to the TV and turned it up loud. LeBron squirmed in his sleep, but did not wake.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Dex whispered.

“Someone important knows where your wife is,” Rios said. “I can take you to her.”

Dex studied Rios’ face before answering. “What would happen if I picked up the phone right now and asked General Wainewright about this?”

“You’d never know peace,” Rios said. “You’d always wonder about Angie.”

The would-be President couldn’t hide his feelings. He was about to become the centerpiece of something that was far more sinister than he had even imagined. He was becoming acutely aware of the fact that he still didn’t know the rules of the game or even who all the players were. He cast a worried glance at LeBron.

“Get your son dressed,” Rios warned. “He’s not safe here.”

Over Northern Virginia

4:50 a.m.

The first hint of purple sunlight appeared through the Gulfstream’s cockpit windows. The porch lights and streetlights of D.C.’s bedroom communities twinkled like constellations not 500 feet below the aircraft. It had taken some convincing, but the pilots had come to believe Carver’s story that they had been targeted by CENTAF. Until now, they had stuck to Carver’s orders to fly at treetop level, under radio silence and without running lights.

But radio silence also meant no contact with air traffic control. They weren’t cleared to land at any airport — military, federal or civilian. The copilot turned in his seat to face Eva and Carver. “We’re low on fuel,” he said. “I’ve gotta radio in.”

“No radio,” Carver replied.

“You don’t get it,” the copilot said. “This is the Capitol we’re talking about. The airports are surrounded by SAM installations. If we’re not careful we’ll get an ass full of Patriot missile.”

Carver maintained his composure. “No. We need another option.”

The copilot pulled at his hair and thought for a moment. “There’s a small private airstrip near Valley Forge. My kid got his license there. With a little luck we could — ”

“Too far,” Carver said. “We need to get our team into the D.C. area immediately.”

The pilot spoke up without taking his eyes or hands off the controls. “Not many cars on the beltway this time of morning.”

The copilot shot him a dirty look. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I spent two years putting F-18s down on the U.S.S. Carl Vinson.”

“Stop.”

“That boat’s just one hundred thirty-four feet wide. Runway couldn’t have been wider than two freeway lanes. Floating, no less.”

The pilot was for real. Carver looked to Eva. “What do you say?”

“I think we’ll qualify as a carpool,” she quipped.

The copilot began to recite Psalm 23 as the plane slowed and turned northeast. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me…”

They came in so low over Alexandria that Carver could see the face of a woman getting into her car for the morning commute. The Gulfstream jet skimmed the telephone poles as it came in over the I-495, the rumble of its engines triggering car alarms. It extended its landing gear as the first sight of light pre-dawn freeway traffic came into view.

Eva and Carver bent over in their seats with their heads between their knees, bracing for a hard landing. The co-pilot’s recitations grew louder: “…Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; Thou annointest my head with oil; My cup runneth over.” He stopped abruptly as he saw three economy-size sedans merge onto the otherwise wide-open freeway ahead of them. “Oh God!” he said. “Pull up and re-approach.”

“Negative,” the pilot answered. “We won’t get a second chance.”

The landing gear hit the asphalt hard. The sedans careened to either side of the freeway. The Gulfstream’s wing flaps snapped to 90-degree angles as the aircraft braked, skidding across the median and into the path of two oncoming cars. The left wing dipped as they entered the wide, grassy median, clipping the windshield of an oncoming truck and slicing the cab clean off. The Gulfstream’s left landing gear snapped on the uneven ground, sending the plane sliding in a shower of white sparks.