William Tyree - Line of Succession

Taylor offered the field commander an eight-figure bonus — paid in cash — if he could hold the White House for forty-eight hours, or at least until reinforcements could be called in from Chantilly and elsewhere. He was to keep half the bonus for himself and distribute the rest among his squad leaders. They would be part of a new America, he explained. And they were going to profit from it.

The National Mall

11:24 a.m.

As the bewildered Pentagon brass made their way down the Lincoln Memorial steps, seventeen Secret Service agents formed a human perimeter around Eva and Speers. Seventeen was all Special Agent Jack McClellan could round up on short notice, not twelve hours since they had been dismissed by Wainewright’s transition team.

McClellan met them in the middle of the circle of black suits and sunglasses. They knew each other well. McClellan had personally escorted Eva to three world economic summits, and it had been Speers himself who had persuaded Agent Rios to reinstate McClellan to First Team detail.

He was the first to address Eva by her new title. “Madam President,” he said, his eyes scanning the Ulysses forces, “We have to move out.”

They whisked her down to the Presidential car, nicknamed The Beast. The vehicle was straight out of Batman — five-inch thick armor, run-flat tires, blast-resistant undercarriage and an interior that auto-sealed during a chemical attack. McClellan hoped today wasn’t the day that the Beast had to earn its name.

The security detail divided into groups and filed into six other cars. Typically, the Presidential motorcade would have been three times that number, including at least two decoy Presidential limos and four SUVs loaded with urban combat specialists.

“Eva!” a voice called out as she was about to enter the car. It was Dex Jackson. A Secret Service agent was holding him at the base of the Memorial steps.

“Let him through,” Eva said.

Speers’ hands balled up into fists as Dex cut through the semi-circle of Secret Service agents and came toward them. He was sporting a nasty bruise on his jaw from Dex’s sucker punch earlier in the day. But as he got closer, Speers looked in the SECDEF’s eyes. He was broken up inside.

“Where’s Angie?” Dex said.

“On her way to Bethesda.”

McClellan didn’t like the looks of the Ulysses troops organizing just thirty or so yards away. “Madam President, we have to move now!”

The four of them — Eva, Dex, Speers and McCellan — piled into the back of the Beast. The motorcade proceeded down Constitution Avenue in the opposite direction of the White House. Without the usual legions of security, throngs of curiosity seekers were free to run alongside the limo and peer through the veil of deeply tinted glass.

“We’re going the wrong way,” Eva said.

“We’re not going to the White House,” Speers said.

“Someone care to tell me why?”

“Because they’ll kill you,” Dex cut in, talking over Speers. “Ulysses is shoring up positions around the Mansion.”

The glow of accomplishment fell from Eva’s face. “I’ll have you hung for your part in this.”

“No,” Dex said. “You won’t. You need me.”

“Madam President,” Speers interrupted, “I propose that we head to NBC studios. I think we need to go on camera and tell the country what’s happening.”

Again, Dex cut in. “We’re way past the media war. This is a military coup. They only understand force. And without me, you’ve got none.”

Eva frowned. “And I suppose I’m supposed to beg for your help?”

“Grant me full immunity and I’ll start calling the Pentagon brass right now.”

The Tunnels

11:27 a.m.

Agents Carver and Rios walked through the amber-lit subterranean corridor linking the Lincoln Memorial and the White House. They went single file, with Carver in front, as the tunnels were no wider than four feet in this stretch.

From the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, Carver had been among the first to notice the Ulysses troops melting away from the National Mall. Seconds later his phone buzzed in his hand — a text message from Haley Ellis telling him that Ulysses was marching up 17Street NW toward the White House.

“A military dictatorship?” Rios said in disbelief. “The public wouldn’t stand for it.”

Carver knew the opposite to be true. “Everyone thinks that we’ve been brought to our knees by Islamic terrorists,” he reminded Rios. “A lot of people will think a military man is just what the doctor ordered.”

The tunnel portal opened to a private bunker some 100-feet below the West Wing. The main room featured an open floor plan and a dozen single beds separated by yellow shoji screens. Against the far wall, a private office was stocked with computers and communications equipment. The near wall was stacked to the ceiling with shelves full of MREs and emergency medical kits.

“The First Family’s personal shelter,” Rios explained. “They call it Camelot.”

“They wouldn’t head for Raven Rock?”

“Get real,” Rios said. “If the Allied Jihad got themselves a couple of submarines and started launching nukes off the coast, there’d be no time to go anywhere but here.”

Carver’s mind was on the hundreds of Ulysses troops heading toward the White House Complex. “Any weapons?”

Rios led Carver to a weapons locker, revealing a half-dozen standard M4 carbines. Carver couldn’t hide his disappointment at the slim pickings. He slung one of the carbines over his shoulder. “Anything high-impact? RPGs? C-4? Grenades?”

“Hardly.”

“Then we’ll have to get organic,” Carver said.

Rios raised an eyebrow. “We’re not here to fight, are we?”

Carver shook his head. “No, Hector. We are here to destroy.”

The way Carver figured it, the White House — and specifically the Oval Office — was like the Sword in the Stone. Anyone that possessed it would suddenly inherit unimaginable powers that were only safe in the hands of a legitimately elected Chief Executive. Carver was still old enough to remember what came after the fall of the Soviet Empire. Mikhail Gorbachev had been a prince among world leaders. Idolized. Worshipped around the world. Then one day Boris Yeltsin stood on a tank in front of the Kremlin, and a couple hours later found himself in Gorby’s old office getting drunk and fielding congratulatory calls from Gorbachev’s old friends. It wasn’t that anyone liked him all that much. They were just afraid of him.

17th Avenue

11:31 a.m.

Haley Ellis stood on the Eisenhower Building rooftop with a pair of binoculars. The midday sun beat down on Ulysses troops pouring in from every direction. They had effectively surrounded the Executive Mansion on Pennsylvania Avenue between 15th and 17th Streets, and had cut off the intersection of 17th and New York Avenue as well. Bradleys fortified their positions in the Ellipse, also known as the President’s Park — fifty-two acres of public green space adjacent to the White House’s South Lawn. Ellis counted at least four hundred armed soldiers and fifteen Bradleys so far.

Her headset buzzed. It was FBI Director Chad Fordham. “Just got off the phone with your boss,” Fordham said, referring to the NIC Director. “You wouldn’t believe the rumors flying around.”

“All true,” Ellis replied. “The question is what we’re going to do about it.”

“Do about what? I just received an explainer fax from the Pentagon. It says Ulysses has a contract to protect the Capitol during martial law.”

Did she really have to spell it out? “They’re not there to protect anyone,” Ellis snapped. The FBI Director was silent on the line. Ellis took this as encouragement. “Mister Director, we have somebody inside the White House. You need to hear it from him.”