William Tyree - Line of Succession

Dex’s eyes reddened. “Why did you bring me here?”

“I thought if you knew the truth, you might want to see her alive again. I thought you might help us.”

“But they’ve got my son now.” The next train pulled into the station. It was bound for the Pentagon. He headed toward it. “You’re on your own.”

The Pentagon

6:02 a.m.

General Wainewright’s armored SUV entered the Pentagon’s subterranean parking facility and stopped at the private entrance reserved for top brass. General Farrell stood in the concrete archway, smoking his fifth cigarette since the Willard Hotel’s wake-up call had come at 4:45 a.m. He dropped the butt and stamped out the smoldering cherry just as the Chairman got out of the car. After losing Dex Jackson, it wasn’t hard to imagine Wainewright blowing off his head for a simple infraction like smoking.

The two met each other with only a glance and walked at a quick clip. “Did you see the Ambassador?” Farrell said. He was anxious for any news on Iran’s pledge to go after Allied Jihad camps in Pakistan. The two walked past a Lance Corporal distributing Kleenex to a trio of weeping civil servants. “What’s their problem?” Wainewright said too loudly.

“They’re grieving,” Farrell replied as they rounded a corner toward the elevators.

“For who?”

“President Hatch,” Farrell hissed. “It might be old news to you by now, but the rest of the world is just getting used to the idea.”

The press release had come out of the Pentagon as scheduled at five a.m. sharp. It had been a deliberately terse and obtuse statement issued directly from the Pentagon: The President died at Camp David after a suicide pilot of Yemeni heritage crashed a plane loaded with explosives into the area. Also among the dead was Secretary of the Treasury Eva Hudson. The Pentagon is working with the other branches of government to maintain the continuity of our federal government. A pivotal ceremony at the Lincoln Memorial will take place before ten a.m. today. There are no further details available at this time.

“It never occurred to you to postpone the press release?” Wainewright said.

“We didn’t notice Dex was missing until eight minutes after it went out.”

The idea had been to give the public three hours or so to absorb the grim news — just long enough for the Pentagon to spin Dex’s inauguration as a swift, necessary step to stabilizing the country. By the time opposing members of the Senate and the House figured out what had happened, they would realize that they were outnumbered, pitted against the Pentagon, the Judicial Branch, several members of Congress, and a reeling American public that would do anything for the sake of stability. If possession was nine-tenths of the law, then the White House would be theirs before anyone could contest it.

At least that had been the plan.

They stepped into a waiting elevator and descended four floors to the NMCC, where they would run the last stage of the operation.

“And if Dex doesn’t show up?” Wainewright said.

“He’ll show,” Farrell said. “We have the boy.”

The elevator doors opened at the entrance to the NMCC vault. Two Ulysses MPs saluted as the Generals entered. A crew of fresh communications specialists was on duty. All had been hand-picked by Chris Abrams. The previous crew was still sequestered at Rapture Run, and would be held there until Wainewright could ascertain whether they could ever again rejoin the general military population. In the event that the 279 Ulysses and Armed Forces personnel at Rapture Run were deemed a security risk, Wainewright was prepared to flood the bunker with nerve gas, then bury the entire facility under five-hundred tons of lime, concrete and dirt.

In the far corner of the cavernous command room, Abrams stood and saluted. He wore a black t-shirt and forest green cargo pants. On his right cheek was a four-inch square bandage that covered a grenade wound he had taken during the firefight in Baltimore. Wainewright and Farrell made eye contact with Abrams, but did not acknowledge him in front of the staff. Instead they went into a private conference room and waited for Abrams to follow.

As a rule, they treated Abrams like a walking weapon of mass destruction. His reputation in the mercenary trade was without equal, and he made as much money as the CEOs of many Fortune 500 companies. That made him far too dangerous to risk any public association. Until now, they had never met him in person. Instead they used pawns such as Corporal Hammond to deliver messages back and forth and negotiate payments. With Hammond now dead and the other intermediaries confined to Rapture Run, Wainewright and Farrell had no choice but to communicate with him directly. These were desperate times, and Abrams was the only person in the world they could trust to take out the remaining targets.

As Abrams entered the room, the Generals watched him in the same way that a child might watch an exotic tiger in a zoo. He closed the door and sat at the far end of the conference table. Then he pulled a meal substitute bar from his pocket and began eating.

“You need to finish the job you were hired to do,” General Wainewright told him.

The mercenary’s mouth was full as he spoke. “If you had kept tighter reigns on your Treasury Secretary, General, Angie Jackson would be pushing up daisies.”

Farrell, who prided himself on knowing when to play yin to Wainewright’s yang, jumped in. “Let’s just focus on next steps.”

“We’re tracking Blake Carver and his little entourage,” Abrams said.

Wainewright was outraged. “Tracking them? I want Eva Hudson’s head on my desk. Kill them now.”

“Not yet, General. First, Agent Carver will lead us to Julian Speers.”

“Exactly,” Farrell chimed in. “Speers wasn’t even on the original target list. But it’s clear that he’s going to be hugely disruptive.”

“Unacceptable,” Wainewright insisted. “I want immediate gratification.”

Now finished with his meal, Abrams put a boot up on the table. His pant leg raised up just high enough for the Generals to glimpse his ankle holster. Farrell didn’t have to look at Wainewright to sense his displeasure. He had already told the Chairman that terminating Abrams after the operation was not an option, since he claimed to have an elaborate scheme of retribution planned in the event that he was double-crossed.

Abrams remained calm. “It will happen like this. I will direct the operation from here. Our ground troops will corner them. Then we’ll deploy the USOC team to take them out.”

“You’re scared. Otherwise you’d do this yourself.”

The mercenary’s face grew surly. It was true. Agent Carver had gotten the better of him in Baltimore. He had been lucky to escape with his life. Still, he didn’t appreciate being called a pussy.

“Chris,” Farrell chimed in, “I think what General Wainewright is trying to say is that he’d like you to handle this personally.”

“Fine,” Abrams said. “But it’s going to cost you.”

*

Haley Ellis watched as the tall, sinewy bald man with pockmarked skin sat at a laptop computer linked into the network. The monitors around the room lit up with headshots of Eva Hudson, Agent Carver, Agent O’Keefe and Julian Speers. Abrams addressed the room. “These are the people we’re looking for,” he announced. “You can begin sharing these profiles with our Ulysses field operatives.”

Ellis watched helplessly as the message was dispatched to public and private units all over the city. The message below each read: WANTED FOR CONSPIRACY TO ASSASSINATE THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES. LETHAL FORCE AUTHORIZED.

She jumped in her seat as a hand touched her shoulder. She looked up and locked eyes with General Farrell. “Miss Ellis,” he said as he towered over her. His breath smelled like eggs Benedict and coffee. “I’m afraid there have been some changes in the command structure. Perhaps no one notified you. The NIC is no longer welcome here.”