Line of Succession: A Thriller (45 page)

Farrell regained phone reception and began downloading a series of reports. He sniffed the foul air. The ghastly odor of smoke, gunpowder, diesel fuel and tear gas – a byproduct of the street battle – wafted through the mansion’s ventilation ducts.

“
We are encountering some resistance,” Farrell reported as he read a message from the Ulysses field commander. He yearned for a cigarette, then thought better of it. Wainewright was in a delicate mood. There was no sense in angering him.

“
By who?”

“
Certain elements of the FBI, sir.” He found himself unable to provide the General with additional details, for fear that he would overreact.

“
Authorize the use of indiscriminate force on all enemies of the state,” Wainewright said. “Scramble a squadron of attack helicopters. I want the FBI headquarters reduced to rubble.”

Farrell couldn’t hide his shock. “There are civilians working in that building.”

“
Zero tolerance,” Wainewright said. “It’s the shortest path to stability.”

Walking slowly behind his master, Farrell doubted the Air Force would obey the order. He also could not curb his cravings. He plucked a cigarette from his front pocket and reached into his front pants pocket for a lighter. He sparked the cigarette and inhaled, savoring the taste of the unfiltered tobacco. “Sir,” Farrell said nervously, “I think this could be counterproductive.”

The Chairman pulled the white antique Colt .45 revolver from his holster and shot Farrell through his smoking hand. The bullet passed through the back of Farrell’s left hand, through his mouth and eventually lodged near his cerebellum. The Vice-Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff crumpled at Wainewright’s feet.

Wainewright lingered on the gory image for only a moment. He looked up at the horrified S
tars and Stripes
journalists. “Obviously we’ll memorialize him as a hero,” Wainewright said. “Start working on the story.”

He began up the stairs. Wainewright’s mind turned to the broadcast he would soon be making from the Oval Office. He would stick to the talking points they’d been feeding the networks since Sunday. He would reinforce what the public had already been told – that Allied Jihad cells from Yemen and other extremist countries had infiltrated the United States and struck a crippling blow to the country. He would say that the foreign perpetrators had been dealt with, and that additional names and details would be forthcoming.

Then he would tell the American public something new – that the terrorists had help from within the federal government, from right within President Hatch’s own cabinet. Eva Hudson. Julian Speers. People the President trusted most had been unhappy with the direction the country was going and decided to overthrow the administration in a mad scramble for power. He would promise to prosecute these traitors and bring them to justice.

Burlington

12:26 p.m.

Nico watched the shaky, hand-held camera view of dark smoke rising from behind the Red Cross building along 17th, just a block from the White House. Since the FAA had grounded all news network helicopters this morning, news feeds amounted to a few frightened journalists delivering blow-by-blow reports from behind buildings and cars.

He refocused on the task at hand. It had taken longer than he would have liked, but he had been able to use the slave machine he had acquired in the Ulysses USA Chantilly headquarters to network into the company’s combat operations center. From there, he would be able to send instant messages to ground troops that would appear to be from central command. Theoretically, he now had the power to manipulate the very forces that were blockading the White House.

Nico realized that there were two problems with this strategy. First, thanks to the spotty news coverage, he had no way of knowing what the battleground really looked like. Without the ability to see Ulysses troop positions, any bogus directives Nico might issue to Ulysses forces might inadvertently help them. The second problem was that his directives had to seem realistic. If he issued something that didn’t smell right – like sudden withdrawal – it would only take seconds for a field commander to countermand the order. There had to be some slight but significant movement that would tip the scales against them.

He glanced up at the TV as a camera zoomed in on a lone figure atop the Eisenhower Building. She wore a t-shirt with the block letters NIC on the back.

Nico turned up the volume. A frantic, disembodied voice narrated the scene. “
We’re looking across the street, although the smoke has made visibility quite poor. I’m told the woman you’re seeing is NIC’s Haley Ellis, whom C-SPAN watchers might remember from last year’s intelligence congressional hearings
.”

Nico drummed the desktop with his fingertips. He had just found his spotter.

17th Avenue

12:31 p.m.

A barrage of 25mm gunfire sliced off the southwestern corner of the Eisenhower Building rooftop. Ellis hit the deck as the tracer rounds edged closer, shearing tiny chunks off the historic building’s ornate sixth-floor exterior. Scary as it was, Ellis took some satisfaction in being the target of this latest assault. It meant that her three kills had finally forced the Ulysses Bradleys along 17th to redirect some of their fire from the SWAT and FBI forces.

Now she felt the telltale vibration of her phone in her pocket. She pulled it out and read a text message from Agent McClellan:
base runner headed for home. south lawn. clear a path.

Base Runner was the codename for a President in transit. Ellis hoped McClellan was mistaken. She had heard the President’s limo, codenamed “The Beast,” was heavily armored, but it wouldn’t be any match for the Bradleys that were blocking access to the Ellipse and the South Lawn.

Ellis ran, hunched over, to the southeast side of the rooftop and looked over the side. From there she had a partial view of the West Wing and the Oval Office where Agent Carver waited with LeBron Jackson. She could also see the entire South Lawn, The Treasury Building some 300 yards to the east, and the Ellipse. The five Ulysses Bradleys were still there, parked end-to-end, gunners peeking out of their turrets like a row of armored gophers.

The phone rang in her hand. She checked the caller ID. It read CARVER. “Abort!” Ellis answered. “The path isn’t clear!”

But the voice on the other end wasn’t Carver’s. “I can help you, Haley Ellis,” the voice said.”

“
Identify yourself or get off the line. “

“
I’m a friend of Agent Carver’s,” Nico Gold told her. He had managed to hack into the network to spoof Carver’s mobile ID. It had been the only way to ensure that Ellis would take his call. “If you could wave a magic wand and make Ulysses do just one thing right now, what would it be?”

“
Who is this?”

“
Try me, Haley Ellis. There isn’t much time.”

Ellis ducked and spun on her heels, scanning for enemy spotters. The haze had grown too heavy on 17th. She could no longer see the opposing rooftops. She gazed across the South Lawn to the Treasury Building. Something was happening over there. She saw hunched over figures running back and forth. “I need to know who I’m talking to.”

Nico’s voice was steady and insistent. “Just try me, Haley.”

The Presidential motorcade would be coming up the South Lawn any second now. To do that, they’d have to cross the Ellipse. “Okay,” Ellis said. “Five Ulysses Bradleys are parked on the Ellipse. I need them gone.”

“
Gone where? Be specific.”

Ellis didn’t have to think too hard. “Tell ‘em the HVT is at 15th and Pennsylvania. Tell ‘em to stage there and await further orders.”

“
Stand by,” Nico said. There was silence on the other end for a full ninety seconds as the firefight along the street intensified. Then the voice began in Ellis’ ear again. “Done. Now take a look. Tell me what’s happening.”

Ellis crab-walked to the opposite side of the rooftop and peered over the park-facing side. Sure enough, the Bradleys were moving out, heading northwest across the Ellipse. “I’ll be damned,” Ellis said into the phone. “It’s actually working. Who are you really?”

“
A friend.”

The Bradleys had just disappeared under a canopy of sugar maple trees when something new registered in Ellis’ peripheral vision – two M1A1 tanks slicing across the National Mall toward Constitution Avenue.

Ellis took a gander through the binoculars to confirm that she wasn’t delusional. Sure enough, the tanks bore National Guard insignia. But it didn’t make any sense that the stretched-thin Guard would dare go against so many Ulysses units, nor did it compute that they would send only two tanks.

The M1A1s had just hit the Ellipse’s green when Ellis saw the Presidential motorcade coming up behind them. Six cars, with the Beast smack in the middle of the formation.

Something moved atop the Treasury Building. Treasury flanked the White House’s East Wing and was directly across the immense South Lawn from the Eisenhower Building. Whomever controlled Treasury could turn the South Lawn into a shooting gallery, and it looked like Ulysses units had somehow fought their way back to the top.

Looking through the binoculars, Ellis was pretty sure one of them was holding something long and lethal over his shoulder. The combatant dropped to a kneeling position with, sure enough, a Javelin anti-tank missile. The motorcade had been spotted. The bastard was just waiting for a clear shot.

“
Hey,” Ellis said into the phone. “You still there? I need another miracle.”

“
I’m here,” Nico replied, “but the Ulysses net sheriff just booted me out of the network.”

“
Can you get back in?”

“
It’ll take time.”

Time was one thing Ellis didn’t have. She hung up and steadied the M4’s muzzle on the roof’s lip and found the soldier in her scope at 310 yards. It was twice the recommended distance for the M4, which was designed for close combat. But there were no other options. The SWAT snipers were too far away.

She lost the convoy behind a grove of southern magnolias for a moment. They soon broke into view as they sped across the park’s zero-milestone.

Seconds later, a combined 120 tons of hulking steel ripped through the South Lawn fence at full speed. The iron barrier crumpled like blades of grass under the M1’s treads. The motorcade poured onto the South Lawn through the massive holes in the fence.

Haley understood now. Since she had been hanging with Agent Rios, she had been thinking in football analogies, and this was no different than a basic trap play. The M1s were like offensive lineman creating holes in the defense. The cars in the motorcade were blockers, the Beast was the running back, and the end zone was the Oval Office itself.

It was now or never. Ellis returned her gaze into the scope of the M4, found the Javelin operator atop the Treasury Building, and moved the scope up three inches above the soldier’s chest, calculating a slight arc in the bullet’s trajectory across the 310 yards.

She pulled the trigger. Dust flew from the rooftop over the target’s left shoulder. Damn. Ellis readjusted her aim and squeezed the trigger again, but the rifle’s recoil did not come. The M4 was jammed.

*

From the south-facing windows of the Oval Office, the very one where Presidents from bygone eras had watched as protesters massed outside the South Lawn gates, Agent Carver spotted the motorcade, complete with escort tanks, rolling up the green toward the West Wing. The Presidential limo – the Beast – was in the middle of the formation. Base Runner still had a lot of ground to cover before she would be safe.

White light flashed from atop the Treasury Building. An instant later, the Javelin anti-tank missile slammed into the Beast. A huge cloud of smoke engulfed the lawn, obscuring an entire acre. Carver pushed LeBron under the desk.

It was the end, Carver thought. He had been told that the Beast could withstand a full-scale attack by a couple of maniacs with machine guns and grenades. It could probably even survive a roadside bomb. But he was pretty sure the car couldn’t hold up against an armor-piercing missile.

Moments later, he was amazed to see the Beast crawl, blistered and smoldering, from the haze. A chunk of its front-end was twisted and cockeyed, and the length of its chassis was crooked, but the long black behemoth was intact and still moving, albeit much slower.

What it couldn’t take was another hit. So why weren’t those tanks closing ranks to protect Eva’s car?

The Javelin anti-tank missile operator held the launcher vertically and looked to be reloading. Odds were slim that Ellis was going to be able to pick him off from her perch on the Eisenhower rooftop.

“
Stay under the desk,” Carver told LeBron. “If I’m not back in five minutes, hide in the Rose Garden.”

Clutching his M4, Carver exited the office’s east door and sprinted into the Rose Garden in a low crouch. He scurried to the very edge of the foliage, closing within about 110 yards of the Treasury Building. Without a scope, this was going to be an awfully hard shot with the rifle he had. Getting closer would mean running in the open grass. It would be suicide.