William Tyree - Line of Succession

Rios shook his head in disbelief. “How many agents do you think we actually have in the Capitol right now?”

“Maybe a hundred White House Police and twenty Special Agents, but God knows what state they’re in. Half of ‘em are probably hung over.”

“We’ll need every single one,” Rios said. “I’ll get on the phone.”

McClellan stood up. “No. let me do it. I know you were head of First Team and all, but when it comes to respect…”

Rios was more than happy to step aside for a moment and give Jack McClellan’s ego its due.

“Fine, Jack. Go ahead. Round up a posse.”

The Lincoln Memorial

9:15 a.m.

Chief Justice Stanford P. Dillinger stood behind a pane of bulletproof glass at the top of the Lincoln Memorial steps, where members of DOD, Congress and Ulysses executives milled about, gossiping in the already stifling morning air. Dillinger had trimmed his massive gray beard for the occasion. The Chief Justice was a reluctant one-man receiving line as the VIPs cleared security in pairs and came up the steps.

Jowly Ulysses CEO Jeff Taylor rolled toward him in a gold-plated wheelchair, the glint from his diamond cuff links momentarily blinding the Chief Justice. “So you’re the voodoo priest that’s gonna bless this shotgun wedding?” Taylor said as he shook Dillinger’s hand. But Dillinger, all-too-conscious of the news network cameras and the power of long-range microphones, did not smile or comment. He concentrated instead on a two-star General coming up behind Taylor.

This wasn’t Justice Dillinger’s first inauguration. He had administered the oath of office to President Hatch some six years earlier, and again for the President’s second term. He recalled the first inauguration as being filled with hobnobbing members of congress, celebrities, billionaires and religious leaders, all hoping to be part of Hatch’s broadly themed Crusade for Change. Hatch’s second presidency was made possible only because his opponent had been diagnosed with untreatable brain cancer just two months before the election. The irony — that the very disease that had taken his wife had made him a two-term President — was far from lost on him.

That inauguration had been considerably less jubilant. Gone were all the celebrities and religious leaders. But Washington’s elite had returned, along with big business, if only to call in favors they felt the President owed them.

Congress had gone into recess a week earlier for vacation. It was now Wednesday and they still had not been recalled to Washington. Dillinger looked around and envisioned his future in the burgeoning police state.

He surveyed the mall, where a few dozen carefully vetted members of the media, and around five thousand invitees from various federal agencies, were solemnly gathering. Huge crowds were gathered along Constitution Avenue, kept at bay by Ulysses troops. Ulysses soldiers stood at the Memorial steps like bouncers at a concert trying to prevent fans from getting onstage. They also stood atop guard towers that had been hastily thrown up overnight using construction scaffolding. D.C. Metro Police helicopters hovered overhead. Dillinger found it curious that there were no Secret Service agents on hand.

“Harry,” someone said, tapping Dillinger from behind. He turned and saw Justice Dominquez, President Hatch’s most recent appointment to the bench. Dominquez had been closest to Hatch in terms of ideology, and he pulled no punches. “We’ve been talking,” he said, meaning himself and the other Justices. “We think the terms of the inauguration are unacceptable. We think the Court should abstain from this ceremony.”

“Oh?” Dillinger feigned surprise. He knew damn well that the terms were less than ideal. He was only doing this for fear that the country would otherwise descend into chaos. And only because Wainewright had promised to install a sitting cabinet member. The alternative was permanent military rule. “This isn’t a constitutional matter,” Dillinger correctly pointed out. “The Succession Act of 1947 is a congressional matter, and with congress in recess, I have a larger duty to the people of the United States to ensure that the country continues to operate with some sense of normalcy.”

“You have a duty to make sure that the right person is sworn in.”

“I have to go with my conscience,” Dillinger argued. He had known General Wainewright for twenty years. Although he suspected that the Chairman had pulled off nothing less than a military coup, he knew going against him now would mean paying the ultimate price. He, for one, had no love for President Hatch, nor his Treasury Secretary-cum-girlfriend Eva Hudson, and he wasn’t willing to succumb to Riacin poisoning — or sacrifice the Supreme Court — to preserve their legacy.

A groundswell of chatter rose up from the crowd. Justice Dillinger saw an armored stretch Humvee pulled up in the drive beside the Memorial. A company of armed Ulysses MPs sprinted toward it, assembling in two lines of security that stretched between the Humvee and the Memorial steps. General Farrell stepped out first, followed by Dex Jackson. They waved to the crowd, and then made their way up the steps.

Dillinger moved to the Inaugural Podium and readied the Presidential Bible.

Lincoln Memorial Archives

10:05 a.m.

Dust kicked up in a far corner of the six hundred-square foot archive room. Agent Carver ducked through a wooden door frame that would have been far too diminutive for Lincoln himself. His clothes were soaked to the chest with brackish tunnel water. He crouched there near the doorway with his weapon as his eyes adjusted to the room’s harsh yellow lighting.

The room was a tall maze of wooden shelves packed with airtight containers. The unmistakably tinny sound of AM radio chatter came through an open doorway at the other end of the room. “ We are perhaps moments away from a landmark moment in history ,” a radio voice said. “ There really is no precedent for what the country is seeing right now. In a few moments the Secretary of Defense will ascend to the Presidency.”

The others were still waiting in the tunnel. Eva Hudson and Angie Jackson had both been reported as dead. So long as Carver could keep them alive, they alone were proof of a conspiracy to deceive the public and overthrow the government.

Carver waited until his eyes adjusted to the lighting and then proceeded to secure the room. He walked slowly to the end of the row, stopping every so often to peer through gaps in the containers. The sound of the radio grew louder as he approached the doorway. “If memory serves, this moment has some indirect precedent. I’m referring to the time when President Ronald Reagan was shot in the 1980s and Defense Secretary Alexander Haig declared himself in charge.”

He stepped through the doorway and felt the cold metal of a Smith amp; Wesson.38 revolver press into his right cheek. “Drop to the ground,” a voice said. “Don’t do nothin’ stupid.”

If the timber of the old security guard’s voice hadn’t given away his age, then the choice of weapon would have. The.38 was an old-timer’s weapon. A police sidearm in an era before steroids, genetically modified food and seven-foot-tall athletes made bigger criminals that required bigger weapons. Pawn shops across America were full of them.

“I’m a federal agent,” Carver said. “ID’s in my pocket. Go ahead. Take a look.”

The rent-a-cop seemed even less comfortable with the situation than Carver was. “If you was a federal agent,” he said nervously, “then you wouldn’t need to be creepin’ around my archive room, now wouldja?”

Carver didn’t have time for this. He had tried it the easy way. “I surrender,” Carver said. “Don’t shoot. I’m going to put my wrists behind my back so you can cuff me.”