The door is locked in place by a massive wheel, the sort you’d find on a bank vault. I stare at it through the monitor, waiting for it to turn. It’s been fifteen minutes since we sent a man up to the surface for a looksee. He was only supposed to do a quick survey, but since we don’t know the situation topside, there’s no way of knowing what constitutes “quick” in the current circumstances. If the White House has collapsed, there’s no telling how long he’ll take.
Unfortunately most of the cams in the security net are offline, so we can’t get a good idea what’s happening. The few that are operational are from outlying areas, and generally pointed away from the White House. We know the Eisenhower Building has collapsed while the New Executive Office Building is still standing, but that’s the best we can determine.
God damn, I’d had staff in the Eisenhower. I didn’t like them—most of them were ijits foisted on me by Kroga and Cannon—but they were still my men. Of course, if we’ve been nuked, they’d be dead even if the building remained standing.
“Any luck with the linkup?” I ask the sergeant running the comms board. I shouldn’t be asking. If she had anything to report, she’d tell me; I’m distracting her from her job. But I’ve gotta do something.
“Negative, sir. All I can tell is the problem isn’t on our end.”
“What does that mean, exactly?” the President’s son-in-law asks. I stifle a growl. I don’t him in here—I don’t want anyone in the comms room except Secret Service and military personnel—but the President had insisted I let him in. To liaise.
“When the earthquake hit—”
“We don’t know that was an earthquake,” Captain Nepotism says.
“No sir. But whatever it was, we lost all outside communications when it hit. I had lines open to Langley, the Pentagon and Fort Meade, and they all went dead simultaneously. I’ve run diagnostics on everything we have down here, and our equipment is functioning perfectly. The problem lies somewhere between us and the other ends.”
“Or at the other ends,” I suggest.
“Possibly, sir, but the simultaneity suggests a single point of failure. Langley is well to the north-west of us, and Fort Meade is halfway to Baltimore. A nuclear blast, if that’s what you’re thinking, wouldn’t be sufficient to take them all out at once. The problem is most likely with the infrastructure.”
“Isn’t there something else you can try?” Captain Nepotism says. “Don’t we have satellites?”
“Yes sir,” the sergeant says. “And my equipment says our uplink is good to go. But we aren’t receiving anything, not even a carrier signal.”
“Could something have knocked the dish out of alignment?” I ask.
“Possibly sir. My equipment says everything is pointed the right way, but those readings assume the dish is connected to a fixed surface. If the surface moves, everything goes out of whack. But we also have broadcast reception, too. I’ve scanned all the frequencies, and there’s nothing—AM, FM, VHF, UHF, citizens band. Not even shortwave. Sir, I don’t think there’s anything out there.”
“What do you mean, there’s nothing out there?” Captain Nepotism says.
The sergeant swallows and looks like she wishes she hadn’t said that last part. I remember that feeling from my days as a first lieutenant.
“Go ahead, sarge,” I tell her.
“I’m not sure this is a local phenomenon, sir.”
“I’m not following,” Captain Nepotism says. Why am I not surprised?
“She means, whatever happened upstairs goes beyond the DC area.”
“How can that be? The Norks don’t have anything that powerful, do they?”
“Kid, nobody has anything that powerful. But facts are facts.” The lack of shortwave transmissions is the tell. Unlike most radio waves, shortwaves bounce off the ionosphere, making it possible to pick them up way beyond the horizon. Back in Ye Olden Days before the Internet, weirdos would have shortwave sets that they’d use to talk with people all over the world. My father had been one of them, and he’d talked to people as far away as Tasmania and South Africa. Such things weren’t as common nowadays, but there’ll always be weirdos. Even if we’ve been hit by a massive nuclear strike, there should be somebody talking on the shortwave band—hell, a nuclear war is the sort of thing that would bring ham operators out of the woodwork. I’d bet most of the preppers who have bomb shelters out in Idaho and places like that, they’ve all got shortwave setups.
“Sarge,” I say, “let’s assume for a moment that our sat dish is intact and still properly aligned. What would that tell you?”
Her face wrinkles. “Sir, if that were the case, then our comsat is gone.”
Comsats are in geosynchronous orbit, well beyond the reach of any anti-satellite missiles we have, and almost certainly of Russia and China, to say nothing of North Korea. “Can you realign the uplink from here? Train it on a different sat?”
“Yes sir.” She opens a utility on her computer and begins making the necessary adjustments. “This will take a few—sir!” She nudges her head towards the security monitor, the one showing the airlock/decontamination chamber.
The locking mechanism is turning. After a moment, the door opens and a man steps inside wearing a suit that looks like you could walk on the moon with it—except instead of being a bright and friendly white, his gear is OD green. He closes the door behind him and seals it, then pulls his helmet off. He sets his Geiger counter on a table, then presses the intercom.
“Major Ochoa reporting.” The major is the head of the bunker’s Marine security contingent. He could have sent one of his men up for recon, but he’d opted to go himself. I’d counseled against it, but as he’d pointed out, he’d been a second lieutenant during the Iraq invasion, which means he has experience operating in full MOPP gear under field conditions, unlike the kids under his command who’ve only ever done it for training exercises.
I toggle the microphone and say, “This is General McKuen, Major. Go ahead.”
“General, I did a complete circle of the White House. My Geiger counter showed no excess radiation. Repeat, no excess radiation.”
“I understand. What about people?”
The Major breathes in heavy. “I didn’t see anyone moving about.”
“Bodies?” I ask.
“Not as such, sir. But there is a kind of … sludge on the floor in areas.”
“That’s the best I can describe it, sir. It’s purplish, with the consistency of watery jelly. It isn’t everywhere. The biggest patch I saw was when I passed through the press room, but there were others scattered about. Every patch is near a pile of clothes and personal effects. General, I think it’s the remains of people.”
That is not heartening at all. What the hell could do that? But before we can worry about the specifics, it’s best to get the full appraisal out of the way. “What’s the building look like?”
“Sir, the North Portico’s collapsed. From what I can tell, the columns snapped and the whole thing came down. The South Portico has similar damage, but it’s still standing. Everything else checks out—some cracks in the walls, but that’s it, other than the sludge.”
“Did you try the sat phone?”
“Yes sir. I couldn’t get a signal.”
I can’t say I’m surprised. Given everything the sergeant’s told me, it’d be a shock if the sat phone worked. But it’s still bad news. The phone uses the same system as the Football, the magic briefcase that’s supposed to let the President order a nuclear strike from anywhere on Earth.
What the hell could knock out our comm sats? No one on Earth should have that power.
Which raises a very uncomfortable possibility.
I check the monitors on the airlock. “You aren’t setting off any alarms, but go through the full decon procedure anyway.” The Geiger counter could rule out nuclear and radiological weapons, but the possibility of biological and chemical, though slim, still needs to be accounted for. The Major will seal his MOPP gear in a bag for incineration and then give himself a full shower. In a way, he’s lucky. None of us in here will be able to have a real shower for God knows how long.
Kellerman wanted to keep the meeting closed, but the President didn’t see the point to it, so here we are sitting in the briefing room with the door standing wide open. Everyone in the bunker is crowded around the table or huddled beyond the doorway, except for Sergeant Zimmerman, who’s still in the comm center, and the President’s wife, who’s retired to the bedroom with her son.
“So if it wasn’t a nuke, what the hell was it?” Tweedle-Dee asks once Major Ochoa wraps up his report.
“Unknown,” I say. “At this point, I wouldn’t even venture whether we’ve been attacked or if this is a natural phenomenon.”
“What do you mean whether we were attacked!? Of course we’ve been attacked!” the President says. “That damned gook—you know they’re a no good people, you can’t trust them—he knew we were gonna clean his clock, and he decided to get the first punch in like the lousy coward he is! I knew we couldn’t trust him! That first meeting we had, I said, ‘This is not a guy we can trust! We can’t cut a deal with him!’”
You fucking liar. We’d had a summit with North Korea, and the President had come out fawning over Kim. Said he was a powerful leader and America could learn a lot from him. They’d even signed off on a joint declaration that had amounted to Kim promising to keep his promises.
And we all know where that got us.
Right here. Right now.
“An attack is a definite possibility,” I concede, “but we cannot rule out coincidence.” The worst thing we can do is to start with a conclusion and fit the facts to match. That’s how we got into Iraq.
“Sure we can,” Captain Nepotism says.
His wife nods.
“We have to strike back, immediately,” Cannon says.
This is not good. If the Alt-Right and Manhattan Mafia are in agreement, we’re shit out of luck—there’s no way the President will go against them.
And the thing is, I’m not entirely convinced he should. I find it highly unlikely the Norks were behind this, or even the Chinese or Russians, but I can’t entirely rule out that possibility. Major Ochoa’s account doesn’t match any WMD I’m familiar with—a neutron bomb might come close, but it would’ve incinerated anyone on the surface, not melted them into “sludge”—but unlikely as it may be, it’s not inconceivable that somebody out there developed a new WMD. The timeline for deployment would be incredibly tight—they (Chinese, Koreans, whoever) would’ve had to’ve seen Haberman’s tweet as soon as it was posted and decided to attack with minimum deliberation—but it is barely within the realm of possibility.
“The issue is moot,” the SecDef says. “We’re off the grid. We have no way of issuing orders. By this point continuity of government is kicking in.” The Secretary of Education had been whisked off yesterday to Mount Weather precisely for this purpose. Once the White House dropped offline, NORAD would’ve put an eye in the sky, and when they saw the devastation in DC, they would’ve notified the Secretary of the situation and she would’ve taken the oath of office. Considering her brother is the founder of Darkwater, one of the grossest and most reprehensible “private security contractors” in the world, I have no doubt what course of action she’d opt for.
That’s going to create problems at some point. During the Cold War, Congress had passed legislation setting up a line of succession in case the upper levels of government were taken out in a nuclear strike, but nobody had bothered to work out what to do if, in the chaos of a nuclear war, multiple people end up believing they’re president. I know there’s been at least one thriller written on the subject.
“Absolutely no way!” the President says.
“Pardon me?” the SecDef says.
“I’m the President! I won the election, biggest landslide ever! I had the inauguration—absolutely huge, crowd for miles!”
“Yes sir, we know that, sir…” the SecDef says.
“I’m the one who gives orders! I’m in charge of the military! No one else! That’s the way it works! If anyone’s going to nuke those yellow bastards, it’s going to be me! It’ll be historic! Not something for a woman like Becky fucking DeSani to do! She’s a nobody! She can’t do something like this! I’m the one! When they write the history books, they’re going to say I’m the one who did it! They’ll say ‘Boy, he sure showed those gooks! Best President America ever had! Historic!’ That’ll be me they’re talking about!”
“Daddy,” Eviana says, “you need to calm down.”
“No! I will not calm down! No woman is going to steal my fame! Nobody would even know her name without me! They’d be, ‘Becky who!? Never heard of her!’ She can’t go down in history as the woman who destroyed Kim Jong-un!”
Most of the faces around the table are locked in a rictus of fear. Most of them. Cannon’s grinning like the evil councilor in those movies about the magic ring, and so are his minions. The Skeleton That Walks somehow manages to maintain the same phony smile she always wears.
We’ve gotten used to these sorts of tirades, but we’ve always understood them to be impotent outbursts that we could mostly ignore. Only very rarely would he push us hard enough that anyone had to actually implement his most insane policies. But he’s never screamed at us about not being able to murder twenty-five million people before.
He fixes the SecDef in his gaze. “I don’t care how you do it, but I want to give the order to nuke Korea, you understand! All of it! The whole dirty place!”
“… yes sir,” the SecDef says. “But if the comms are—”
“Why can’t we go to the Pentagon!? We can do it there, right!?”
“We could,” the SecDef concedes, “provided there’s anyone still alive over there and they have working comms.”
“There’s also the question of whether we can reach it,” I say. “We don’t have Marine One here, and we don’t know the status of the bridges across the Potomac.” If the bridges near the White House are down, we’d have to track up to Georgetown, or even into Maryland to get across the river.
“What about McNair or the Navy Yard?” Kellerman says.
Both are possibilities. They’re no farther than the Pentagon in absolute terms, and they’re on our side of the Potomac, so no worries about finding a bridge.
“We’ll have to pass the bridges to get there,” McGraw says. “The route car can swing out to make an assessment.”
“Good. How long to get a motorcade ready?” Kellerman says.
“Depends on how many are going along. We don’t have the personnel for a full caravan, so smaller would be better.”
“Understood.” Kellerman turns to the President. “I’d suggest we keep it to you, me, the SecDef, General McKuen and Captain Curtiz.” He nods to the Air Force officer in charge of the Football.
“Mr. President, the Pentagon is a nest of Deep State vipers,” “Doctor” Kroga says. “Once you get there, they will try to talk you out of retaliating. They wish the Koreans to win. We all know that.”
“Shut your mouth, Herr Doktor,” Kellerman says.
“He’s right! I want people loyal to me! No backstabbers!”
I’m not sure whether I should be insulted by this or not.
“Andy, I want you with me! And Eviana and Gerald!”
“We can manage that, but it’ll be tight,” McGraw says. “Major Ochoa, could I ask to borrow some of your personnel for the detail?”
Officially the Marines are in charge of the bunker’s security, with the Secret Service being responsible for the President’s personal protection, but given the circumstances all hands are going to have to throw in wherever they’re needed.
“I can spare two squads,” the major says. He’s got a platoon down here, so that amounts to half his force, about eighteen or twenty men.
“That’ll do. Do you know if any of them can ride a motorcycle?”
“I have a couple.”
The kitchen is a cramped space—not small, just overstuffed with equipment. Even if we’re going to be living on packaged, non-perishable foods, the cook still has to turn it into meals for a hundred people. Right now he’s dumping giant cans of condensed soup into a kettle. He has jugs of water lined up on the counter. Compared to MREs, this looks mmm-mmm good, but I doubt everyone down here will share that view. The President’s tastes are … let’s call them plebeian, so he probably wouldn’t object to having this for dinner, but his wife, kids and several cabinet members are likely to turn their nose up at it.
Thank God we’ll be gone before that happens.
I sip my coffee and savor the hot, bitter taste, unleavened by cream or sugar or any of the other gunk people use. This is good stuff. Most of what we have down here is instant, but the steward has a supply of fresh beans in the pantry. It’s supposed to be for the President, but the Prez is satisfied with Maxwell House. No point in wasting the good stuff on a palette that can’t tell decent coffee from sewer water.
The SecDef gulps his down like a high school student chugging beer. Once a Marine, always a Marine.
“What do you think?” I say.
“I don’t think it was the Koreans, and I doubt it’s the Chinese. You?”
“Agreed.” This is almost certainly a new weapon, and nobody develops a new weapon in complete secrecy. Even the Manhattan Project hadn’t managed that—people noticed the government buying up vast tracts of land and putting up fences patrolled by armed guards. Even if they didn’t know what precisely was going on inside, they knew something was up. Same thing happened with Groom Lake—nobody knew we were testing experimental aircraft out there, but people knew something hush-hush was taking place and started speculating about little green men and flying saucers. Any experimental weapons project should leave similar telltales, but we haven’t caught hide nor hair of it. “But what does that leave? Natural disaster?”
“I don’t know.” He glances over at the cook, then steps closer to me, lowers his voice. “Given what we know…”
He doesn’t have to finish. I get his gist. The Preakness option. “He’s still the President, Joe.”
“He’s going to kill millions on an unconfirmed assumption that’s probably wrong.”
“And that’s his prerogative. He gets to make that call, not us.”
“The Norks are probably innocent.”
“They are innocent, ninety-nine and nine-tenths of them. That’d be true even if we had video of Kim Jong-un launching the missiles personally. That’s how nuclear war works. Always has.”
The SecDef closes his eyes and nods. “I don’t like it though.”
“Neither do I. But that’s not in our job description.” We are instruments of the President. We can argue with him, but we don’t have agency to stop him. That’s the principle the armed services were founded upon. Civvy control. If we go against that, the United States of America is over. Even if the devastation covers the entire country, as long as we’re sticking to the Constitution, sticking to our oath, the nation will continue to exist in some form.
The SecDef drains the last of his coffee and drops his cup in the sink. “I never should’ve taken this damn job. There’s not going to be any mercy for us, not even from Christ himself.”
I can’t disagree. “We don’t even know if the decision’s in our hands. For all we know, our missiles are already in the air.”
The kitchen door opens and a Marine comes in, a lance corporal who looks like he started shaving some time last week. He snaps a salute at me but addresses the SecDef. “Sir, you’re needed downstairs.”
Mathers’ eyebrow crooks. “Oh?”
The bunker’s lower level consists of barracks for the Secret Service and military personnel present. There’s nothing either of us should be needed for down there. McGraw and Major Ochoa have responsibility for any scuffles that might arise.
“What’s the problem?” Mathers says.
“There’s um …” the corporal gulps. “Sir, the Major said not to talk about it up here. He wants you to see for yourself.”
Now that’s damn peculiar.
The SecDef looks at me and shrugs. “Very well then.”
I take one last sip of my coffee and leave the mug on the counter, still half finished.
We go out into the main room. There’s an episode of some sitcom—Friends I think maybe—playing on the television, but though the room’s full, the President’s boy is the only one paying attention to it. Everyone else is gathered is small groups having hushed conversations. Most of them are pale. The First Lady is smoking in the corner with the Rhinoceros and the Skeleton That Walks. Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum are with Scarlatti, and as we pass them by, I hear them discussing whether New York got hit and if any of their properties there might’ve survived. Jesus, some people.
Cannon, “Doctor” Kroga and one of my aides, a guy named Nicholas Leon, look up from their klatch as we pass. Their eyes follow us to the stairwell.
I let the corporal and SecDef go through the door ahead of me. When I step through, I pause for a moment to look over my shoulder. Cannon and the others are leaning together, whispering, still looking after us. For a half second before the door swings shut, Cannon catches my eye. He smiles.
I do not trust that man. A goddamn Nazi he is. So’s everyone in his orbit. His only saving grace is his utter incompetence. He thinks he’s Blofeld when he’s straight out of Get Smart. If he were the Machiavellian genius he believes himself to be, we’d be in the middle of the Fourth Reich right now, but instead he’s struggled to get his least policy enacted. Maybe in a lesser country he might’ve succeeded, but in a nation with an entrenched bureaucracy like ours—what he calls the Deep State—he’s had to chisel away a bit at a time. Still, in the long run he might succeed—the civil service is bleeding employees, workers who can’t take the bullshit anymore. If enough leave, the opposition will collapse.
Not that it matters anymore.
“Oh God,” the SecDef says. He’s on the landing below me, staring down at the bottom of the stairs, at what I can’t see from up here.
I hurry down.
When I come around the landing, I need a moment to process what I’m seeing. The SecState is kneeling on the floor next to the staircase, except … there’s no way a person can kneel the way he’s kneeling. He’s leaning forward, his body at a forty-five degree angle with the floor. If you tried to do that without support, you’d tip over—it doesn’t matter how strong your leg muscles are, gravity would take you down. It’s an impossible position. And yet I can’t see anything that’s holding him up. His arms are hanging limp at his side, and there’s nothing under him to prop him up.
Then I see it. A thick black string stretching from his neck to the banister.
Major Ochoa and Agent McGraw are standing next to him with a handful of men—a mix of Secret Service and Marines.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Suicide, looks like,” McGraw says.
He holds out a piece of paper for us. The SecDef grabs it and reads. “That sonuvabitch.” He crumples the paper then thinks better of it, straightens it out and hands it to me.
I don’t have my glasses on, left them in the command center, so I have to hold it at arms length to read. The SecState’s handwriting was a wild scrawl even when he was sitting at a desk, but this is a thousand times worse, written with jittery, looping letters. But the message is simple enough, I have no trouble making it out.
I’m sorry. I tried.
“He never pulled his weight,” the SecDef says. “Always expected someone else would take care of things, or it’d all magically work out. Goddamn him.”
“What do we do, sir?” Major Ochoa says. Halfway through the question, his eyes flick towards McGraw and the Secret Service guys.
The SecDef hasn’t told me what the Preakness Option entails exactly, but it’s a good bet the major’s in on it. His men probably don’t know exact details, but they’d be selected for a willingness to go along. The Secret Service, though, is different. They’re here to protect the President above all, and they would never support a plan to depose him, even if they agreed with us that he’s a menace to the country.
“We can’t let this hold us up,” the SecDef says. “Major, take care of the body without disturbing anyone upstairs.”
Ochoa snaps his fingers at two of his men and they spring into action. The SecState had used a simple noose made from his shoe laces, and they only have to push his body upright to be able to loosen it and slip it off his neck. When they do, it reveals his face to me. He didn’t die an easy death—this wasn’t like falling from a gallows, where the rope will snap your neck and kill you instantly. He’d strangled, the weight of his body slowly choking him against the cord. His whole face is livid, as though covered in a giant bruise, and his tongue protrudes from his mouth. The cord had dug into his neck, leaving a bloody gouge across his throat.
Once they have the body loose, the two men lay it on the floor and pick it up like they’re carrying a sofa.
This isn’t an entirely unforeseen turn of events. The designers of the bunker had known people might die down here while waiting to get out, and so there’s a mortuary behind the chapel on the upper level. If I remember the floorplan correctly, the Marines can get there through a back stairwell without disturbing the company upstairs.
Not that they couldn’t use some disturbing. Maybe seeing Millerton’s body would shock their consciences, make them rethink their rush to nuke the Norks. Those who have consciences, that is.
Under normal circumstances, a Presidential motorcade consists of three dozen vehicles, including the President’s limo, decoys, motorcycles, security escorts, a communications van, an electronic countermeasure vehicle, an ambulance and even a HAZMAT truck. The Secret Service has a plan for every eventuality.
Under normal circumstances.
These, of course, are far from normal.
Forget two dozen vehicles. McGraw’s managed to scrounge up eight SUVs and five motorcycles—though I suppose the shortage is more on the personnel side than vehicles; the Secret Service has plenty of cars in their motorpool; it’s a matter of having enough bodies to fill them.
Still, we aren’t departing from standard procedures entirely. Before the main motorcade departs, McGraw sends out a scout car—or in this case, bike—to check that the route is clear of obstacles and dangers. The rider—one of Major Ochoa’s Marines—will swing out to the Potomac to determine whether we can get across or need to proceed to McNair.
A minute after she heads out, a second scout bike follows for a double check.
“Okay everybody, let’s get ready to roll,” McGraw shouts over the roar of the departing bike.
We’ve been assigned vehicles in advance. The President, Eviana and Klausner are already in theirs—an armored SUV rather than the standard limo. The President had thrown a fit at that, threatened to fire McGraw, but Eviana and Cannon had talked him down, convinced him that an SUV would be more inconspicuous given the small size of the caravan.
Me and the SecDef are in one of the decoy vehicles, stuck, unfortunately, with Cannon. This is like being on a field trip in elementary school and having to sit next to the class booger-eater. But our destination’s not too far—without traffic, McNair and the Pentagon should only be ten or fifteen minutes away.
Still longer than I’d like to spend with Cannon.
A voice crackles from the radio in the front.
“What was that?” the SecDef says.
The driver, a Secret Service agent, turns back to us. “Route car. Just got to the river, says Arlington Bridge is down, but the Fourteenth Streets are still standing.”
“That’s some damn fine construction,” Cannon says. “America, we get things done.”
Too fine. In fact now that we’re above ground, the amount of damage we can see is far too little for any sort of explosive attack, nuclear or otherwise. The North Lawn is burnt to a crisp, sure, and the windows in the White House have blown out, but the pressure wave from an explosion should’ve done a helluva lot worse unless the bomb missed by miles.
But what else could do this? A ray-gun? Unlikely. The President’s been pushing us to resurrect the Strategic Defense Initiative, and I’ve had to read up on the state of the art in laser weaponry. The technology isn’t there to do this.
The radio crackles again, and the driver relays to us that the President wants to go direct to the Pentagon. He turns the volume up for us, and we hear McGraw come on.
“Okay, we’ll proceed to the 14th Street Bridge. Let’s roll out. ‘Cycles take the lead.”
And with that the motorcade pulls out. The remaining three motorcycles go first, then the lead car, which is jammed with Secret Service agents. Our car moves next, then the President’s vehicle and the car with McGraw, Kellerman and Major Ochoa, with the remaining vehicles falling in at the rear.
“I understand you guys have taken an interest in horse racing.” Cannon says this casually, as though offering a bit of idle chatter to kill time.
“Where’d you hear that?” the SecDef says.
“Ashley mentioned it. Said you guys were talking about the Preakness earlier. She thought it was weird, the Preakness being in May and all—what is it, seven days after the Kentucky Derby?”
“Two weeks,” the SecDef says.
“Ahh. I wonder where I got that idea from?”
“Don’t know and don’t much care.”
The motorcade turns onto Pennsylvania Avenue and our car slows for a moment, pulling to the side so the President and the other decoy can get in front of us. We’ll do this every quarter mile from here to the Pentagon, just in case somebody’s waiting on a rooftop with an RPG.
“Really, General,” Cannon says, “I think that you do. I think that under that cool exterior, your gut’s doing the flip-flops right now.”
The SecDef laughs at that.
“Did I say something amusing?” Cannon said.
“You think, Cannon? You’ve never had a thought in that head of yours. You’re like a parrot—you’ve got a pea-brain, and all it knows how to do is repeat aphorisms from Machiavelli and Sun-Tzu.”
Cannon flushes. It’s hard to tell because he always has the red tinge of a drunk to him, but his shade deepens ever so slightly. “You don’t take me seriously. You should.”
“Give me a reason to.”
“I’m not stupid, General.”
“I’m not a general anymore. I’m retired.”
“I’m bored with the conversation, that’s what I am.”
The car turns again, this time south onto 14th Street.
“Do you know who Judas was, General?”
“Stop acting cherry. You sound like a teenage boy trying to ask a girl out. If you’ve got something to say, say it.”
“I watch Turner Classic Movies just like you do. I know what ‘Preakness’ means. Seven Days in May. You think you’re Burt Lancaster, gonna save America from an incompetent president. But you’re not. You’re a used up old man.”
Cannon reaches into his coat pocket—even in DC heat, even with his hair hanging limp from sweat, he has on a suit coat—and comes out with a pistol. An FN Five-seveN. Not an uncommon gun—you can buy one at any gun shop—but it happens to be a model favored by law enforcement agencies. The Secret Service included. Did Cannon steal this from an agent, or get into the armory? Or is it his own personal sidearm that he somehow slipped into the White House?
The difference between the civilian and law enforcement models are superficial, but the one area where they do differ is ammo. The stuff sold on the civilian market is powerful, but within the range of high-powered handguns. The pro-stuff, though, was developed for NATO, and is capable of penetrating Kevlar.
Not that Mathers or I have on body armor. But if Cannon has this, he’s a threat even to people in the other vehicles.
“Stop the car,” the SecDef snaps at the driver.
We keep going.
“He’s not going to listen to you,” Cannon says. “Unlike some people, he keeps his oath.”
“Yes sir,” the driver says. “Make America great again!”
Shit. Guess that answers where Cannon got the gun from.
“This is Hedgehog. I’m at the Mall now, and there’s activity down here. A large group of people over at the Smithsonian Castle. They’re moving this way.”
There’s no answer.
“Quickdraw, do you copy? You want me to check this out?”
The SecDef and I exchange looks. There’s worry in his eyes. McGraw should be making a snap decision, whether to wait while the scout bike checks things out, or to divert to a different route. But if he’s not responding--
“Don’t worry, gentlemen,” Cannon says, “Agent McGraw is all right. I don’t know about your Major, though.”
“What the hell is going on?” I force myself to keep my voice calm and level. Calm and level.
“We’re just putting down a coup. Major Ochoa is a part of it, isn’t he? McGraw should be arresting him for treason right about now.”
The radio crackles and the President’s voice comes on. “Don’t stop! We’re going to the Pentagon! Going straight there and nowhere else, and we’re going to nuke that sonuvabitch Kim Jong-un! We’re going to nuke his whole damn country, and China too! Vietnam! Japan! All those gooks! They’ve never been good to us! They’re always causing problems!”
“Uh, yes sir. Proceeding to the bridge.”
What the hell is McGraw doing, letting the President make an operational decision? That’s the Secret Service’s purview.
The SecDef ignores the radio. “Millerton?” he says. “That you’re doing?”
“I didn’t put the rope around his neck, if that’s what you’re asking. Once Ashley told me about your Preakness discussion, I realized he must be in on it too—you don’t have many allies in the White House, and you have to take what you can get. Too bad for you, Millerton’s a weasel. Once he realized I knew what was going on, he spilled his guts to me. Afterwards… well, the weak-minded are susceptible to suggestion. Only took a few words to convince him. Went out like a proper Roman, I’ll give him that.”
“I am, yes.” Cannon actually smiles. “I may have a parrot’s brain, but I’ve read Sallust and Machiavelli and Procopius, so I know how this sort of thing works.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. My daughter had gone through a stage when she joined the drama club at school and dressed in all black, and even she had never been this pretentious.
“So what’s the plan? You kill us and tell the President what?”
“You think the President will care? He’s been asking about the possibility of ‘taking care’ of his political enemies for months. I’ve had to talk him out of it, convince him we’re not in a position to act yet. Once I tell him what you guys had planned, he won’t care.”
“We still have laws in this country,” the SecDef says.
“Do we?” Cannon makes a point of looking out the window. We’re passing what used to be the Black History Museum, but all that’s there now is a pile of rubble. “I’m not seeing much country left. You? I figured it would take another year to get everything to the point we could move, but with this … I’ll admit, it’s not ideal, but with everything knocked down, we can pick up the pieces and run things the way they’re supposed to be ru—”
“Quickdraw, this is Goldstar. Are you looking at this?”
“Whoa, that’s a big crowd.”
“We should divert. If we double back to Constitution, we can take 66 across.”
“Where the hell did they come from?”
“Quickdraw? Do you copy?”
There’s so much chatter on the radio that it takes me a moment to realize we can see what they’re talking about. Up ahead on the Mall, there’s a massive crowd of people heading west. The group’s tiny compared to the protest I’d seen on Fox earlier, but there are still a few hundred people out there. And they’re crossing 14th Street, blocking the motorcade’s progress. This is exactly why McGraw should’ve overridden the President’s order.
“Keep going! Mow ‘em down! We have to get to the Pentagon!” the President shouts over the radio.
But the lead car is stopping, and so are the motorcyles ahead of it.
“What’re you doing?” Cannon says to the driver. “You heard the President. Punch the gas.”
The driver twists his head around, shock on his face. “We can’t do that sir. They’re civilians. They’re peaceful.”
“They’re traitors. They were protesting the lawful President of the United States in support of our enemies—the enemies who did this.” Cannon points to stone nub that’s all that’s left of the Washington Monument.
“Sir, no,” the driver says.
Cannon raises his gun. “Push through.”
“Jesus!” That’s it. I am through with this asshole.
Cannon’s a drunk, and I’m pretty sure he’s a coke-head as well. His reaction time should be shit. And, not to put too fine a point on it, if Cannon pulls the trigger right now, it’s the driver who’ll take the bullet, not me or the SecDef. Sorry, guy, this is what you get for siding with a Nazi.
I reach up and hook my arm around Cannon’s elbow, yank it down as hard as I can. His finger jerks on the trigger. In the enclosed cabin, the explosion is deafening and the muzzle flash leaves a flare dancing across my vision.
“Shot fired! Shot fired!”
“Where’d it come from?”
“Anyone see anything?”
The SecDef leans across me and grapples with Cannon as well, grabbing his wrists and trying to pry the gun loose, but the man’s putting up one helluva a fight.
“Two o’clock by the trees. There’s a guy with a gun.”
“He’s in a crowd. What do we do?”
We’ve wrestled Cannon around so that the gun’s pointing towards the ceiling, but his hand is still firmly on the grip. I elbow him in the face, but it does no good.
Ker-pam! Another gunshot blasts through the cabin.
“Shit, that wasn’t the guy in the crowd.”
“There’s a second shooter!”
“Wait, I don’t think—”
“Take them down! Take them out! Clear them away!”
“This is Quickdraw. Weapons free. Repeat, weapons free.”
Gunfire erupts outside the car in a steady, sustained barrage. The way I’m twisted around, I can’t see out the windows anymore, but I hear screaming.
Cannon presses his palm into my face, pushing my head around to the side. Suddenly his other hand breaks loose from our grip. He smashes the gun butt against my temple and my vision goes wobbly. I recover in time to see him aiming the gun at the Secretary of Defense.
Cannon pulls the trigger.
The bullet goes straight through the SecDef’s throat. It’s not an instantly fatal shot, but without an emergency room around, it’s definitely fatal.
Cannon swings the muzzle down until it’s an inch from my forehead. Jesus. I’d always known there was a chance I’d die in the line of duty, but I never thought I’d get shot by a fucking Nazi.
To Be Continued...
-by Sean O'Hara