William Tyree - Line of Succession

Dex hung up and turned his gaze to Eva. “He wants proof that you’ve got the support to take office.”

“That’s your job,” Eva said. “If you can’t deliver that, then you are useless to me.”

Even if Dex had overestimated his sway with the military brass, Fort McNair held the keys to Dex’s backup plan. The 200-year-old military outpost was neatly tucked into a Washington business district. Gone were the battlements that had once lined its walls. Gone was any trace of the gallows where the Lincoln conspirators were hanged in 1865, including Mary Surratt, the first American woman ever executed for treason.

These days the base was much more like a college campus, awash in military officers in casual dress going to and from classes at the National Defense University’s War College. Other than a few armed MPs, there were no active combat units in residence. Which was why a pair of National Guard M1A1 tanks had caught Dex’s eye when he had visited the previous week. The upgraded M1A1 was still arguably the most fire-resistant tank in the world, having a composite armor package that included depleted uranium. It was nearly impossible to take one out with a standard RPG. Most anti-tank missiles couldn’t dent it either. Not in one hit, anyhow.

As the motorcade pulled up to the gates, two Army MPs hustled out from the patrol booth. Dex got out of the state car and gestured at the gates. “Open ‘em up!”

Both saluted as they recognized the Defense Secretary. The gates opened. Speers ran after Dex, passing the patrol booth as the motorcade drove by. The pair of thirty-two-foot long, sixty-seven-ton tanks were still parked on the freshly cut grass.

“Who’s authorized to drive those M1s?” Dex asked the taller MP.

“Two National Guard Tank Commanders are teaching a class in residence, sir. The tanks are for demo purposes only.”

Dex wiped the sweat from his brow. “Like hell they are. Get those commanders out here on the double, and tell ‘em to bring their gear.”

Dex walked up to one of the tanks and touched his hand to the sun-heated armor. “These bad boys are going to get us into the Rose Garden.”

“How’s that?” Speers sputtered. “I see two measly tanks and two measly tank commanders. A battle-ready M1 has a crew of four.”

The M1A1 had seen action in six war zones since 1990, and aside from roadside bomb attacks in Iraq and Afghanistan, there had been only two confirmed reports of M1A1 armor being compromised by enemy fire. In both cases, the tanks had been hit from behind, where the armor is thinner.

“Well?” Speers persisted. “How are these tanks going to do anything against twenty-some-odd Ulysses Bradleys without even a full crew?”

“We won’t be slowing down long enough to fight.”

Now Speers found himself in Dex’s face, spitting as he spoke. “Eva’s life has been in constant danger for four days. I’m not willing to go there again.”

“Get out of my grill,” Dex growled. He had already decked Speers once today, and the idea of tattooing the Chief’s face with his fists again was tempting.

“Hey!” a voice shouted. Jack McClellan emerged from the Beast and jogged toward the tanks. “I just talked to the boys over at CS,” he said, referring to the Secret Services’ counter-sniper unit. “He’s scrounged up about twenty snipers, maybe more. They’re willing to fight.”

Dex’s eyebrows raised, but he stopped short of smiling. They were going to need a lot more help than that. “Coordinate with Haley Ellis.”

“Who?”

“Haley Ellis. NIC snitch with some urban combat experience. She’s taken up a position atop the Eisenhower Building. We might as well coronate her as the eyes and ears of this op.”

17th Street SW

12:21 p.m.

It was ninety-six degrees along 17th Street with ninety-eight percent humidity. Heat flares rose up from the asphalt, mixing with exhaust fumes to create hundreds of tiny, fleeting rainbows that rose and evaporated like Technicolor ghosts. The civilian crowds melted away into the side streets as columns of Ulysses soldiers marched up 17th and 15th, which ran parallel on the other side of the White House Complex. A crew of five Bradleys sealed off southern access to the White House by setting up positions along the Ellipse. Haley Ellis thanked her lucky stars that Ulysses didn’t have air power.

She watched through binoculars as FBI agents wearing bullet-resistant vests fanned out atop an office building at 17th and F Streets. Another group deployed further down 17th atop the old Red Cross mansion. FBI Director Fordham had managed to come up with just ninety agents — the best he could do on short notice. It was good that they were taking the high ground. Ellis had led urban patrols in Ramadi and been in exactly the position Ulysses was in now. Nothing had been more demoralizing than being pinned down from above.

Still, Ellis knew those numbers weren’t going to be nearly enough should the crisis escalate into full-on combat. If nothing else, she hoped that the notion of fighting the FBI would be enough to make some of the greener Ulysses troops desert their posts.

In the past hour Ellis had also been on the phone with the D.C. Metro police. The local cops hadn’t cared for the way Ulysses had taken over the city during martial law, and it wasn’t hard to convince the DC Metro Police Chief to pitch in. SWAT teams were staging on the Blair House rooftop at the corner of 17th and Pennsylvania, and also at Lafayette Square. Riot police were assembling a few blocks away.

White smoke billowed along 17th from an FBI tear gas canister. Ellis trained her binoculars on the street, hoping to see the first signs of desertion among Ulysses’ ranks.

A voice boomed over a mobile PA system that the FBI had been hastily mounted atop the Red Cross building further down 17th: “This is FBI Director Fordham. All Ulysses units are to disband immediately and leave the White House area. If you do not leave, you will be treated as hostile.”

Having themselves been prepared to use tear gas during martial law, the Ulysses troops quickly donned gas masks. Ellis held out hope that they wouldn’t have the gall to fire live rounds at Federal agents in broad daylight.

Two of the fifteen Ulysses Bradleys turned their 25mm guns toward the Blair House and unleashed a torrent of fire along the roof’s edge. It’s on, Ellis thought in wonder. This is really happening. Public versus private, brother against brother, God versus the Devil.

The FBI agents responded with a fierce salvo from the adjacent rooftops as the Ulysses troops were still struggling with their chemical masks. A handful went down in the first volley.

Her phone buzzed. She answered on Bluetooth, but it was impossible to hear the caller over the sound of the battle. She tore off the headset and pressed the phone close to her ear.

The caller was Special Agent Jack McClellan. “I’m here to help,” the old man said. “I’ve got twenty counter-snipers and a hundred Emergency Response agents ready to rumble. Plus about fifty special agents, but they’re pretty much only packing guts and handguns.”

“Get your snipers on high ground near 15th and Pennsylvania. The D.C. police are already massing at the other end of the street.”

“Got it,” McClellan said.

“Also, Ulysses has managed to get on top of the Treasury Building. They need someone their own size to pick ‘em off.”

“Will do. I’ll check in when we’re in position.”

Now that the game was on, Ellis wasn’t about to be left out. She slid the M4 off her shoulder and steadied the barrel on the edge of the building overlooking 17th. She would have to limit her targets, as the M4’s effective range was only about 160 yards.