William Tyree - Line of Succession

Eva Hudson — her clothes shockingly muddied and wet — walked barefoot in front of the DOD brass. As the cameras zoomed in on her, it was evident that the World’s Sexiest Fed wore no makeup and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Agent Carver walked slightly in front of her, clearing a path.

Just behind them, Speers and the old timer accompanied Angie Jackson toward the front. Her eyes were fixed on some faraway point and she was mumbling.

They moved quickly by design. By the time General Farrell caught a glimpse of Eva through the crowd and moved to block their path, there were only 10 feet between Eva and the podium. Carver opened his jacket to reveal his SIG. Farrell backed off. The Ulysses MPs were both too far away and too confused to intervene. Dex stepped off the podium and gazed stupidly at his wife.

To Dillinger’s horror, Eva leaned toward the microphone and began speaking into it for the thousands in attendance to hear.

“Your Honor,” she started in a shaky voice that grew more confident, “CENTCOM has confirmed that the President, the Vice President, the Speaker of the House and the Senate President Pro Tem are all deceased, God rest their souls. The Secretary of State, who I presume to be still alive, is foreign-born and therefore ineligible for the office of Chief Executive. Therefore, under the terms of the Succession Act, I respectfully request that you swear me in as the next President of the United States.”

PART V

The Pentagon

11:19 a.m.

General Wainewright had never given much thought to what it would be like to come down on the wrong side of history. But as he stood in the NMCC and watched his carefully laid plans unravel on live television, he realized that there was something even worse than tactical failure: letting the left-wing historians demonize him as an enemy of the state.

The room monitors displayed a life-size Eva Hudson standing in Dex’s place at the inauguration. None of the Ulysses MPs lifted a finger to stop her. Wainewright’s bloodshot eyes turned to the communications staff. “The HVTs are on camera! Take them out!” he shouted at nobody in particular. All activity in the room stopped. Every head turned. “What part of conspiracy to assassinate the President don’t you people understand?”

“Sir,” one of the senior staffers said quietly. The man stood up. He had a face like a pancake and two protruding glossy orbs for eyes. “The Ulysses field commander has refused the order.”

“Then tell him who’s giving it.”

“I’ve done that, sir. He has responded by saying, and I quote, he needs to hear it from the CEO.” The staffer stepped back, as if fearing that Wainewright’s reddening face might explode.

“Get me Jeff Taylor,” he demanded. If the Ulysses troops wouldn’t take a direct order, then he would get the company’s CEO to intervene.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” the staffer stammered. “NIC Director Hummel and Deputy Homeland Security Director Davis are entering the Pentagon as we speak. They would like to assess the situation before any further orders are taken.”

“Like hell they are! I’m in charge here! Somebody get Jeff Taylor on the phone!”

Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. Wainewright felt suddenly naked in front of the men. He wiped a layer of perspiration from his forehead, unfastened his holster, drew his.45 automatic and switched the weapon off safety.

“Hit the deck!” someone shouted. The staff dove under desks and workstations. Except for the senior staffer, who closed his eyes and awaited the inevitable. But Wainewright did not shoot him. With the gun in one hand and Lincoln’s opera glasses in the other, the General opened the blast doors and exited to the waiting elevator.

He waited for the elevator doors to close, then swiped his security badge and pressed the elevator’s HOLD button. Alone at last. He needed to catch his breath. He inhaled deeply and tried to clear his mind of clutter.

“I have options,” he said aloud. “They think I don’t, but I have all the options.”

*

Jeff Taylor had seen enough. Aided by his designer cane and his wife, Taylor hobbled toward the Lincoln Memorial handicapped elevator. The botched spectacle of an inauguration wasn’t over yet. But it was obvious that, with Eva Hudson in the White House, Taylor’s career was.

The CEO’s phone buzzed. General Wainewright’s photo appeared on the display. Taylor’s thumb flirted with the IGNORE button. Any correspondence with Wainewright or the other conspirators now was very risky. The coming witch hunt for the conspirators would be like none the world had ever seen. A hundred times bigger than the Kennedy conspiracy investigations. Still, he reasoned, Wainewright was dangerous. Better to keep him close, Taylor decided. He steadied himself on his wife’s arm and answered.

Wainewright wasted no time in making his intentions clear. “Jeff,” he said, “I don’t have to tell you what an Eva Hudson Presidency means.”

“They’re fueling up my jet now,” Taylor said quickly. “Meet me in Chantilly in twenty minutes.”

“We will not cut and run,” Wainewright said. “Your job isn’t done yet.”

As Taylor realized what Wainewright was suggesting, he began to lose his balance. His wife ground her heels into the concrete flooring and managed to steady him. “What is it that you want?” he said.

“Have your troops secure the White House perimeter and await my arrival,” Wainewright pressed. “No one gets in or out without my approval.”

Taylor had once considered Wainewright a strong ally and a personal friend, but he had never suspected that the General was such a radical. A back room conspiracy was one thing. But now Wainewright was staging a public coup. He was going to kill Eva Hudson in open view and take the White House by force.

The CEO figured he had nearly fifty million dollars divided among personal accounts in Europe and the Caymans. If his health held up, he might be able to buy his way out of trouble. “Ulysses is strong,” Taylor said, “but it’s nothing without the backing of the President.”

“Wrong. The Pentagon will fall neatly into line behind me,” Wainewright assured him, “And Ulysses will take its place at my side as my own private elite force.” Taylor was quiet for a moment. Wainewright knew better than to give him time to process it. “Jeff,” Wainewright added, “Don’t think for a second that you can run from this. If Eva gets power, she will find you.”

The General had a point. He recalled how Eva had proved her mettle as a global bounty hunter at the IMF. Taylor figured he might have to hide in a developing country — or at least one hostile to the U.S. government — that would sell him political asylum. He tried to imagine himself adjusting to life in a country like Syria. Or North Korea. He had been to both places on business. He hadn’t seen a single handicapped ramp or parking space in either country, not to mention the state of the hospitals. Not ideal for someone with disabilities.

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” Wainewright said. “Hold the White House for a single day, and the country is ours.”

Taylor took the elevator down to his car. He dialed his local field commander, who had spent the past three days busting civilian heads in the Capitol. He explained that in light of what his men had already done to D.C.’s homeless population, and considering the Hatch administration’s lack of popularity, the order to contain the White House perimeter came as a more or less natural extension of Ulysses’ current role. Still, Taylor had to be realistic. It was possible that his employees would have to battle other Americans. That could have disastrous consequences on morale. Widespread desertion was a very real possibility. But every warrior had his price.