Designated Survivor (2 page)

“Watch this,” Arrington sat facing him.

A television screen was mounted on the wall behind Arrington that separated them from the driver’s seat. The two men watched the live coverage from CNN through a satellite feed to the vehicle. No media helicopters were being allowed in the air in D.C., so all of the views were zoomed in from any vantage point the reporters could find from blocks away. Blurry shots of the United States Capitol Building filled the screen as the reporters kept repeating the few things they thought to be true or had guessed about the situation.

“What the hell?” Grace said.

“State of the Union,” Arrington said. “Gunfire began just after President Abrams began speaking.”

“I didn’t vote for her,” Grace said.

“I know,” Arrington’s charcoal grey pinstripe suit jacket was hung on a chrome hanger attached to the dividing wall, his white dress shirt still crisp from the dry cleaners, as it always was. His light brown skin never showed signs of being shaved and no stubble was ever visible on the man’s chin or the top of his head.

“How do you know that?” Grace said.

“Because we’re the NSA. The last time you voted was for Ross Perot when you were eighteen years old because your father hated him.”

“Shit,” Grace said. “You guys are good.”

“Yes, we are,” Arrington said. “Capitol police began to enter the building after the initial gunfire stopped, but then the emergency barricades were activated from inside, effectively locking everyone in.”

“We have anyone inside?” Grace said.

“A few radio transmissions have come through, usually followed by gunshots then lost signals,” Arrington said. “We believe all of our people are being systematically eliminated, if they haven’t been already. There’s no cellphone activity so we think there’s multiple jammers in place.”

“So someone has the president, vice president and all of Congress held hostage inside the United States Capitol?” Grace said.

“That’s the short answer, yes,” Arrington said. “Don’t forget about all of the Supreme Court justices and cabinet members and the hundred distinguished guests in the gallery.”

“So, who’s running the country?” Grace said.

“Precautions are taken during the State of the Union,” Arrington said.

“You mean the designated survivor?” Grace said. “Whatever low level cabinet member drew the short straw and is eating a five-star dinner in a bunker somewhere? That’s the leader of the free world right now?”

“Yeah,” Arrington said. “Aren’t we lucky.”

“Who has the football?” Grace asked about the black suitcase that travels with the president that contains the launch codes for the Nation’s nuclear missiles.

“The president has it inside the Capitol,” Arrington said. “The designated survivor has a backup. The pentagon can delete all active launch codes and replace them with new ones as soon as we tell them to.”

“And you haven’t yet? We think that’s the target? Is someone trying to get our nukes?” Grace said.

“It’s our primary assumption. Changing the codes brings the system offline for an hour and we can’t be left with our pants down right now in case that’s what they want. Russia alone has 1600 warheads pointed at us. 60 minutes gives them time to land quite a few of those,” Arrington said. “If we knew who the hell was behind this it would help us narrow down their end game.”

“How does something like this happen?” Grace said. “There are hundreds of agents and officers from half a dozen agencies protecting that building.”

The SUV turned sharply then slowed as it approached the gates to the newly constructed building in Herndon, Virginia. The gate opened without the car stopping and they sped through the dark parking lot to the front of the building.

“We’re trying to figure that out,” Arrington said. “And we should find out more soon. Early reports are that it was friendly fire.”

“Seriously?” Grace said. “Our men just started shooting at each other inside the Capitol?”

“Again, it’s early reports,” Arrington said. “We’ll get an update as soon as we get inside.”

Grace looked out the window. “Why aren’t we going to Beltsville?” Grace said. Beltsville, Maryland is home to the Special Collection Service, a highly classified joint operation between the NSA and the Central Intelligence Agency. Their primary mission is to infiltrate and insert eavesdropping equipment in foreign territories, though specialized teams such as Grace’s were often used for more proactive missions.

“This fits our immediate needs better,” Arrington said. “We’re flying by the seat of our pants to get a leadership team together. The secretary of Defense, the FBI director and the Attorney General are all in the Capitol. There’s no guidebook for this.”

“Whose building is this?”

The generic building stood out from others in the area only by the row of large boulders that were placed around the perimeter of the compound, outside the fourteen-foot tall fences with razor wire stretched along the top. The boulders became standard at all new and updated federal buildings housing intelligence agencies in the wake of the bombing at Oklahoma City, after a homemade fertilizer bomb in a rented U-Haul parked on the street beside the Murrah Federal Building and detonated.

“Homeland Security,” Arrington said.

“Homeland Security?” Grace said. “Shit. They’re like the neighbors who just moved in and start complaining about your grass being too tall before the moving truck even leaves.”

“Trust me, I don’t like it. The NSA isn’t used to playing nice with anyone, I’ll be the first to admit that. Hell, just sharing your team with the CIA annoys the hell out of me,” Arrington said. “But right now we need all the help we can get. I haven’t been here yet, but from what I hear they have everything we need right now to try to get ahead of this thing.”

“Who’s here? Are they read in on me?” Grace’s status within the SCS was top secret and only known to a handful of people. His role within the agency was technically not even on the books.

“I sent word ahead that I’m bringing in a special operator from a cross-agency task force,” Arrington said. “We’ll give them the details when we need to.”

“Nothing I like better than having a bunch of agency heads know my identity,” Grace muttered.

They entered the building. Even at the late hour there were still people working on several floors. From the main atrium they took the elevator three levels below ground and exited into a lobby with cement walls and a steel door with two armed guards. An armed guard checked Arrington’s credentials then turned and swiped an access card across a sensor. Once the sensor beeped approval the guard placed his right hand on a glass panel and a red light scanned his fingerprints, body temperature and pulse. The scanner turned off and after a moment the magnetic lock on the door released. The guard stepped over and quickly opened the door for the director of the NSA, his arm flying up into a salute.

“I’m not military,” Arrington said. “You can put your hand down.”

The circular room was large and lined with monitors wherever they could fit along all of the walls up to the ceiling creating a barrage of flashing images that rivaled Times Square. The entire room was a media display of every news channel covering the events at the Capitol from domestic and international news broadcasts. The desks surrounding the center of the area were mostly empty except for one analyst that had been hand picked.

“This is the new operations control center for the Executive Terrorism Task Force. It wasn’t set to go live for another two months, but right now it’s the best place for us to run this thing from,” Arrington said. “From here they can access any satellite, any transmission from a United States or ally airplane or ship, and command a drone strike anywhere on the globe.”

“But somehow somebody just stole the US government,” Grace said.

Arrington grimaced at him as they approached the group sitting around a conference table in the middle of the room.

“You said Executive Terrorism Task Force?” Grace said. “This different from the Joint Terrorism Task Force?”

“Yes,” Arrington. “The JTTF is buried in paperwork, red tape and more than 5,000 employees. The ETTF was created by the president and answers only to her and the Joint Chiefs. It’s streamlined and efficient, designed to be run with minimal staff and even less oversight.”

“Cool,” Grace said. “They hiring?”

Arrington again threw a frown at Grace then turned to the people at the large conference table in the center of the round room.

“Grace, you know CIA Director Bernard Leighton,” Arrington said.

“Of course,” Grace said. “How’s Betsy?”

“She’s doing wonderfully, good to see you Grace,” Leighton said.

“Betsy?” Arrington said.

“The director’s labradoodle,” Grace said. “I dog sit for him occasionally.”

Arrington turned and stared at Grace before continuing.

“This is Amanda Paulson, assistant Director of the FBI,” Arrington said.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Paulson,” Grace leaned across the table and shook the woman’s hand.

“It’s Ms.,” she said. “Pleasure’s mine.”

“And this is . . . ” Arrington said.

“General Vic Darby, of course,” Grace said. “How’s life in Florida?”

“Good, until today,” Victor Darby had been confirmed as the commander of Special Operations Command, or SOCOM, six months earlier. Grace’s SCS team worked closely and covertly with the Navy’s SEAL teams under SOCOM command when they need assistance with infiltration and exfiltration beyond their normal means.                  

“We’re in DHS’s house but they have nobody here?” Grace said.

“The Deputy secretary is at the Capitol,” Arrington said. “Congress has yet to confirm the new secretary.”

“Great. So where do we begin?” Grace said.

“Let’s watch some TV,” Leighton said. “If you will, Mr. Murray?”

The analyst sitting at a desk ten feet away stood up and tapped on a tablet with one finger until all of the screens surrounding the room changed. Video began to play showing the inside of the Capitol building.

“This was taken at 8:14, just as President Abrams was beginning her speech,” the analyst said.

They watched a series of security camera footage of a line of Secret Service officers in tactical gear and holding assault rifles. One of the officers turned and began firing at his team, taking down two before any other shots were fired. More officers behind him began to fire until everyone was down. Capitol Police were seen entering and putting bullets into the heads of any survivors, until they reached the original shooter leaning against the wall. After the body fell over, the shooter turned and aimed up at the camera and fired. Then the feed went black.

“That’s some shit,” Grace said.

“Please, some respect,” Arrington said.

“No, he’s right, that is some shit,” Amanda Paulson said. “And we need to get to the bottom of it. Our leaders are being held hostage and men in our uniforms are helping.” Paulson was a rising star at the Hoover Building. Not only was she the first female assistant director, but also the youngest at 39 years old. Her Georgetown undergraduate work then Yale law degree had put her in contact with a circle of powerful people with any law firm in the country ready to hire her. She chose a life of civil service, starting in the Attorney General’s office straight out of school then moving to the FBI when the new director pulled her over.

“Are we sure everyone is still alive in the Capitol?” Grace said.

“We have no video from the building anymore, but we’ve moved an NSA satellite into position and are getting some infrared images that shows plenty of heat signatures,” Arrington said.

“What about helicopters?” Grace said. “Can we get in any closer with a muffled Apache to try to get audio?”

“We can’t take the risk,” Admiral Darby said. “With what we saw from inside the building, we don’t know who’s been compromised, especially to send an armed bird in the air over the building. That could be exactly what they want.”

“Exactly what who wants? Who are we dealing with? ISIL? Al Qaeda?” Grace said. “Putin? The ghost of Timothy fucking McVeigh?”

“We don’t know. It’s been 91 minutes since the attack. Nobody’s claimed credit yet,” Arrington looked over to the leadership sitting at the conference table then back to Grace. “That’s why you’re here. We need an operator. We have some of the greatest military and law enforcement minds at our disposal, but we’re all useless without insight into the terrorist. No offense to anyone present, but we’re the people who say ‘go.’ You’re the person who goes.”

“We still have a clearance issue,” Grace looked around the table then back at Arrington. “Not everybody here is read in.”

Arrington stared at Grace for a few moments then leaned over to CIA Director Leighton and spoke in hushed tones. After a short discussion Arrington stood and turned.

“In light of the events of this evening and our need for transparency and cross agency cooperation,” Arrington said. “We’ll be disclosing sensitive top-secret information.” He paused to look at Grace then continued. “Grace is the lead operator in the Special Collection Service. His experience is greater than anyone else at either agency involved with the team. When I say that Director Leighton and I put our trust in him, it is with full confidence we do so.”

“So that’s out there. Any questions?” Grace said.

“The SCS is real?” Amanda Paulson said. “I thought it was just one of those Beltway rumors.”

“It’s very real,” Grace said. “And the fact that the assistant director of the FBI didn’t know we were real is a testament to how seriously we take our clandestine status.”

Grace turned and looked at the darkened screens. “We need to establish who on the inside was compromised,” he said. “Can you roll that back to the first officer who fired?”

The images began to roll backwards as the analyst controlled it from his keyboard. The screen froze on the moment just before the first shots.

“Zoom in, enhance, whatever you can do,” Grace said. “Can we get his name?”

Moments later the video enlarged and the analyst scrolled until the patch with the officer’s last name was visible.