Captive-in-Chief (14 page)

News of the Sinaloa Cartel’s move to eradicate the competition had filtered in throughout the night. Though the move in Mexico was ballsy, a massive risk, it had paid off. When everyone thought they would run for cover they had struck, taking their rivals down when they least suspected it. The news of the killings in America was far more concerning. The Mexican hitmen were leaving a trail of bodies across the country, gruesome killings using silenced weapons, which in most instances unfortunately for the victims did not mean suppressors. Instead, machetes and knives had left a trail of hideous scenes, the message left behind as important as the death itself.

Clay could have stepped in, his military could have launched an attack on the cartel but with the internal war raging he had received a message: ‘
Let them kill themselves. Tomorrow we’ll strike, they’re doing your job for you.
”

They had left the PEOC at 7.00 a.m., much to his Secret Service Agents’ disapproval. He couldn’t stand it anymore, he wanted his family back in their own beds and not camped out on a sofa. He wanted to run his country from the Oval Office, where the people expected him to be. After all, he knew he wasn’t the target, he just couldn’t tell anyone.

Val fortunately agreed and pushed all complaints to her better sense aside. The country needed a president at his desk protecting them, not hiding in a giant safe buried deep underground. Clay’s first trip after exiting the elevator from the PEOC was to visit the Situation Room and pay his respects to his fallen colleagues and thank the team for their vigilance and bravery throughout the night’s events. All had refused to leave their stations even while the hunt for the killers was still underway and their lives remained in danger.

The morning press conference was scheduled for 11.00 a.m. The press secretary had no illusions it wasn’t going to be one of the most eagerly anticipated of his career, and the hardest. He had had one minute with the president since his early morning address and had quite frankly no idea what he was and wasn’t supposed to say. He was sure it was going to end in disaster.

When President Caldwell swept into the room at 10.59 a.m. unannounced and took to the podium, Paul, the press secretary, could have run over and kissed him.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you don’t mind if Paul sits this one out and lets me take the podium.”

Everybody agreed, none more so than Paul.

“Where to start,” he began. “It’s been a tough twenty-four hours for our country. We’ve lost some exceptional people, talented people that we need at a time like this. Rest assured, there are many talented people ready to fill their shoes. That’s not to say we won’t miss them or grieve for them, of course we will. I’ve lost great friends in the last few days, people I will never be able to replace in my life. However, that’s not to say we aren’t as strong today as we were yesterday, as we were two weeks ago. Graveyards are full of irreplaceable people, yet here we stand today, as strong, if not stronger than ever.”

He was an exceptional orator, something he had worked on tirelessly with the help of Val and her family. Coaching sessions with some of the world’s top trainers prior to his standing for his first election had cost Val’s family tens, if not hundreds of thousands of dollars, but the raw talent that Clay had portrayed, combined with his good looks, war record, and overall stature, had combined to make him a winning ticket that few would ever bet against. It was a miniscule investment, given the return: the country’s most approved of president in generations and its most admired leader in modern history.

“Is this the toughest twenty-four hours of your life?” came a call from the reporters when he opened the floor to questions. An eager young reporter had jumped the invisible and well regarded queue.

“No,” replied Clay. “Next question,” he pointed to another hand. The reporter who should have asked the first question.

“If not, what was?” interrupted the original questioner.

“A day I never talk about. Next question.”

A murmur went around the room, the young reporter was being told to stop by his colleagues.

“What are the plans for the detainees?” a more mature member of the press corps called out.

“But Mr. President...” The original questioner wasn’t giving up.

“The day he won his medal of honor,” replied a member of the press, answering on behalf of the president. “Now shut up.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” replied the young reporter, suddenly realizing his persistence to grab the headlines may have cost him his seat at the White House.

Clay stumbled through the next few questions, he had been put off his stride. The day he won his medal, or to him the day he sold his friend down the river to win the White House. A day that had cost him the only true friendship he had ever known. A day that was nothing more than a lie, and as a result a great man had been destroyed and his life ruined.

“Why call sessions in both Houses?”

Clay needed to get his mind back in the game, his country needed him. “Are any of you live?”

A few nods went around the room.

“Well it’ll come out in the next few minutes anyway. I have asked Congress for approval to use US forces to once and for all tackle the drug cartels. I want to be able to do whatever is necessary in the fight and I want Congress’ approval. As for the Senate, I think I have explained that is to confirm the deputies in the departments that we sadly lost leaders.”

Clay answered a few more questions with regard to the cartels until the question he had been anticipating and worrying about finally came up.

“What about the detainees? Over 13,000 black citizens are being held in camps.”

Clay needn’t have worried, he was on a roll.

“Last night we had over fifty cities under siege from rioters, hundreds of thousands of people were on the streets. The vast majority wanted to voice, as is their right, their upset at the day’s events. Nobody, I repeat
nobody
who was peacefully protesting was detained. Only those instigating or taking part in violent protests were detained. Every FPS officer wears a body camera, footage of every detainee has been checked and verified to ensure only those as stated involved or instigating violence have been detained. Anybody detained without sufficient evidence of violent behavior has already been released. We’re working with the ACLU to ensure all those detained meet the criteria we have set. Anybody who does not meet that criteria will be released. So far, the FPS officers have proved themselves exceedingly effective in ensuring they have only detained the core troublemakers.”

“Who are the FPS?”

“I believe FEMA will be going through this with you today in great detail, but in general the average FPS officer is a highly trained former US military veteran, with enhanced law enforcement and crowd control training. Their main function will be to assist in natural disasters and major events to augment local law enforcement when required. Before anyone asks, last night’s events were not why they were created.”

“Do you have any news on the police officer who killed the three students in—”

Before the question could be finished, ten Secret Service Agents rushed into the room. Clay looked utterly bemused when Mike Laing, his lead agent, grabbed him and with three other agents physically removed him from the room at a run.

“What the—”

“We’re getting you out of Washington, sir!” Mike said as the floor around them shook and the heavily armored and bulletproof windows of the White House rattled wildly. A deafening boom ended any protest from Clay.

With a body full of painkillers and enough caffeine in his system to stay awake for a week, it was a different Joe Kelly that disembarked at Union Station in Washington, D.C. It had taken over forty hours, nearly two days, and for nearly half that time he hadn’t had a drink. For the first time in years he had a purpose to his life, someone was relying on him. Actually more than someone, Clara was relying on him. As much as Clay Caldwell needed his friend, it was Clara who needed Joe more. The tears of the young girl had affected him more than any human being had in many years.

He was ashamed of his behavior, ashamed of how he had spoken to a young girl showing him nothing other than kindness and goodwill. He had sought her out and as much as he tried to apologize, the fright in her eyes never went away. Sandy had melted her heart, and within minutes the little girl’s tears and fear were replaced with smiles and giggles as Sandy frolicked with her in the waiting area. Looks of anger and derision from the other passengers soon broke as they too enjoyed watching the young girl play with the exceptionally attentive dog. Sandy read people as well as any person he had ever met. She knew exactly how to interact with different ages and personalities, knowing her actions would in some way make up for Joe’s behavior.

A final hug for Sandy from the little girl at Union Station and a smile towards Joe was all the confirmation he needed to know he was ready. It wasn’t going to be easy. His hand was shaking in his pocket, his legs felt like jelly, and his headache was chemically restrained only for as long as the painkillers would allow. With her service vest on, there was nowhere they couldn’t go. Joe strode out into the heart of the nation’s capital, his dog at his side, and with a belief in himself he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Two minutes later, he lay in the gutter, blood pouring from a gaping wound. America was about to be rocked to its very core.

Elsa waited impatiently. One phone call and the operation was a go. Finally her spotter called. The motorcade was moving; it was time. The Saudi students were already loaded, high on some concoction that made them compliant to the point of brain dead. They smiled inanely, unable to move due to strapping that secured them to their seats.

Elsa made a final check and fired up the engine. Thirteen liters and 505 horsepower roared to life. The large windows of the Mack refuse truck allowed for perfect visibility of the occupants. Elsa guided the 35 foot, 40,000 lb truck out of the yard and onto the road. Her route, like earlier that morning, would be slightly circuitous to ensure maximum visibility of the Saudi students on their journey. Dressed in their traditional thawbs with headdresses, they were certainly unexpected occupants in the refuse truck. Elsa guided the truck past as many cameras as possible to ensure the occupants were once again recorded for posterity and what was certain to be one of the most comprehensive investigations in the history of the United States.

The phone buzzed next to her with a text. She checked the screen:
Arrived.
It was all she needed to know. She guided the truck towards 2nd Street, SE and headed north. She spotted the Library of Congress to her left. She had practiced the route many times over the previous few months. She slowed. The lights had changed to red ahead, and she wanted to hit them on green. As important as it was for the occupants to be visible, it was not the time to be stopped anywhere near there.

She sped up as the light ahead changed, swinging the metal behemoth 90 degrees onto East Capitol Street, NE. The target lay directly ahead. She locked the steering wheel in place and set the throttle to full power. The 505 horsepower drove the wheels into the road and powered the 40,000 lbs of solid metal onwards. Elsa watched the TV screen as the camera that allowed her to remotely control the truck zoomed in on the target. There was nothing left for her to do. A GPS device would initiate the explosion as soon as the truck hit the target, or failing that, as soon as it stopped.

The truck powered across First Street, NE and hit the metal bollards that were designed to stop cars in their tracks. The 40,000 lbs of metal travelling at 50 mph powered through them with ease; its solid metal fender was v-shaped to assist its path. The long, wide walkway to the iconic and impressive east front steps of the US Capitol and its world famous dome lay directly ahead. Only 200 yards. At 45mph, the bollards had cost them 5 mph, less than predicted; it would take nine seconds to reach the steps.

Elsa flinched as the first bullets ricocheted off of the bulletproof glass. The small caliber rifle fire was useless against the glass that would stop anything up to 7.62 mm fired at point blank range. The engine was encased in metal housing that would stop anything up to a .50 caliber bullet. The truck powered on relentlessly. The next obvious target, the tires, were runflat Hutchinson military grade replacements, which ensured tire shots did no better than slowing the truck marginally. The first rooftop sniper bullet hit three seconds after the truck had cleared the bollards. The 0.50 caliber bullet tore through the bulletproof glass and obliterated the head of what was assumed to be the driver. All four Saudis met the same fate as the truck powered relentlessly on. Twelve seconds in, and travelling at a respectable twenty-five miles per hour, the truck mounted the staircase, continuing on its path until it finally lost forward momentum. It was three feet short of its GPS target, which, as it ground to a halt, became irrelevant.

With both Houses sitting and the vice president leading the Senate in confirming replacements for the president’s key advisors, the bomb detonated. The Secret Service and Capitol Police had had twelve seconds’ warning to save as many of those under their protection as possible. The vice president hadn’t even been extracted from the Senate floor when the bomb detonated.