William Tyree - Line of Succession

“Dex Jackson?” the President said. Now he understood the Chief’s reference to his own Cabinet. “You think it’s Dex getting rich off this?” It occurred to Speers that he had never heard the President refer to Secretary Jackson by his first name. These days, with the cabinet’s all-too-public sniping, it was easy to forget that he and the President had once been friends. Jackson was also the sole Republican in the President’s cabinet, a move that had bought him a little bipartisan support in Congress.

“We’ve got a witness,” Speers said. “He said Secretary Jackson authorized a weapons delivery to someplace called Rapture Run.”

“Rapture what?” the President said.

“NSA has been monitoring what they believe may be terrorist-related cells in both Syria and the U.S. The codename Rapture Run has come up before. We just don’t have context.”

The President shook his head and stood up. “If you’re still trying to decode context, why are you wasting my time?”

Speers cut in. “Sir, we can’t rule out the possibility of a domestic terrorist attack using U.S. weaponry.”

“Julian, you used that word again. Possibility . It’s all very loosey goosey.”

“I’m requesting an executive order to raid Secretary Jackson’s office so that I can get you better data.”

The President frowned. As much as he secretly longed to nail Dex Jackson to a cross, he didn’t have the political capital to do it right now. “Julian, I asked you to investigate a pattern of weapons smuggling that would help me weaken Ulysses. Now you’re accusing Dex of either arms dealing or arming terrorists. There’s a big difference. I can’t go into this willy nilly.”

“Sir,” Speers pleaded, “I may not be able to hold off the reporter much longer.” In June, a New York Times reporter had called Speers asking for commentary on an in-progress story claiming that the DOD had given Ulysses preferential access to government contracts, access to classified intelligence and non-secured loans of government-owned weaponry, which they were in turn selling to America’s enemies. Speers had been able to use his strings at the Times to temporarily squash it. He had until after Labor Day. Then the story would run, with or without the White House’s approval.

“Tell you what,” the President said. “I’d like to meet this witness of yours. If it feels right, I’ll give you what you want.”

The door opened. Mary Chung popped her head in. “Mister President,” she said, “Secretary Hudson’s here for your meeting. Shall I have her wait?”

“No. Go ahead and show her in.”

The President turned to Carver. “I want you in the Security Council meeting today. Sit in the back and keep your mouth shut.”

Heads turned as Treasury Secretary Eva Hudson entered wearing a grey power suit and designer flats. Practical shoes were important in a city like Washington. Parking was a pain in the ass, even if you had your own driver. It was better to walk.

“Gentlemen,” she said as she flashed a flawless smile that looked even whiter against her new spray-on tan.

“You’re looking awfully tan for a politico,” Speers quipped.

“Thank you, Chief.” Eva picked at a coffee stain on Speers’ lapel as she passed. He could smell the molding putty she used to give her long brunette hair body and bounce. He wanted to touch it.

Agent Carver wasn’t immune to Eva’s charms either. He turned at the office exit to check out Secretary Hudson’s Pilates-toned rear end. The move didn’t escape the President, who wagged his finger at Carver as he shut the door.

Carver and Speers hustled through the West Wing. Speers struggled to keep up with Agent Carver’s pace. “Quick bite before the NSC meeting?” Speers offered. “Bet you’ve never had the Executive Omelet.”

“I only eat egg whites.” They headed down the stairs. “Was it just me, or was Eva’s tan a little orange?”

“No, it was bronze.”

“You think she’s got any tan lines?”

“Funny.”

“I should ask the President.”

Speers didn’t like the tone of the remark. “Don’t believe the rumors.”

“Rumors are a threat to national security,” Carver said. “So if Eva Hudson, the hottest woman in politics, is intimately involved with the leader of the free world, I need to know about it.” Carver referred to the latest issue of Vanity Fair , in which Eva had taken the top honors in an article titled “World’s Sexiest Feds.”

Whispers of an intimate relationship between Eva and the nation’s first widower President had plagued them for years. Carver knew that Hudson had started working for the president twelve years earlier, as his Assistant Chief of Staff, when he was Governor of Virginia. During the term, Hudson’s husband died in a tragic car wreck. A month later, then-Governor Hatch’s wife was struck with a rare, aggressive bone cancer that ended her life within weeks. That was when the whispers started. Staffers went on record that the two spent an inappropriate amount of alone time together soon after the tragedies. Eva was then suddenly promoted to State Congressional Liaison, and then the next year, Lieutenant Governor. She didn’t stay in the role long. The International Monetary Fund came knocking, and Eva, sick of the gossip and southern politics, jumped at the chance to join the IMF as Assistant Director. But two years later, after the election, she couldn’t refuse President Hatch when he asked her to join his cabinet.

Sweat ran down Speers’ forehead. “You okay?” Carver asked him.

“Forget for a second what I said in there. What if the President’s right? What if it’s the wrong time to stir up trouble at the Defense Department?”

“That’s crazy talk.”

“You’ve seen his approval rating among the military.”

“Please. Most of those guys voted GOP anyhow. And besides, the President’s a second-termer. Nothing to lose.”

“Any head of state will tell you,” Speers warned Carver, “you don’t wanna piss off the guys with the guns.” Speers had long believed that if Thailand could have seventeen military coups in the past sixty years, and a superpower like Russia could have two in the past twenty years, it could happen anywhere. While most Americans worried about whether a few Arabs had weapons of mass destruction, it was the President’s enemies at home that kept Speers from sleeping at night.

They came to the kitchen, where the President’s security detail chief, Special Agent Hector Rios, was eating a five-egg omelet. Rios had been in the Secret Service for twelve years and spent the past six with President Hatch’s team. Even before the six-foot-ten Rios stood to shake Carver’s hand, Carver recognized the former NFL linebacker.

“Jacksonville Jaguars,” Carver said, grinning, revealing a full set of semi-straight, but perfectly white, teeth. “The first Latino middle linebacker to ever be drafted in the first round.”

Rios grinned and extended his oversized paw for a handshake. “I’m impressed,” he said. “Intel guys are usually into the fringe sports. Mixed martial arts, roller derby. You know.”

“I’ve been known to take in the odd roller derby match myself. So whatever happened to you? How’d you become a Fed?”

“Same answer to both questions. Osama .”

“What? Osama bin Laden killed your football career?”

“Different Osama. In my second year training camp, this defensive tackle named Osama Sinclair busted my left knee. He was just some poor guy from Miami trying to make the squad, but he ruined me. Couldn’t get his name out of my head. Osama. Osama. Osama. I was in the hospital having fantasies about what I was gonna do to this guy when I got out. Next day was 9/11. Osama Bin Laden was all over the news gloating about what he’d done to America. Maybe it was the pain pills, but I had a dream — super vivid, I mean — that I was going to devote my life to protecting America. Next day, I called up the Army and asked about joining. They were real skeptical about the knee injury. Then I called up a guy I went to high school with that joined the Secret Service. Hadn’t talked to him in years. Turned out to be a Jaguars fan. Said his kid had my trading card. And here I am.”