Marigold shook his head. “We have a mock-up of this very room at Site R. Even if you’ve set foot in here, you’d never be able to tell the difference between the two.”
“It’s already been decided,” repeated President Tillman. “Let’s get a move on.”
The President’s three-man security detail stood at attention with their backs facing the Situation Room’s main entry. They sprang into action as the President rose from his leather chair. Two of the detail, armed with compact Heckler & Koch MP7 personal defense weapons, flanked the President as he approached the door. The third man, a former member of SEAL Team 6, carried the football—a leather briefcase containing various items necessary to react to a national emergency, including the 3x5 card containing the President’s nuclear launch codes.
The agent pressed the football to his leg and brought up the rear, effectively sealing President Tillman inside the “bubble”—the designation given by the Secret Service to the immediate area around the President when he was on the ground and on the move. In fact, the moment the decision to leave was made by the most powerful man in the free world, the agent with the briefcase cuffed to his left wrist lifted a radio to his lips and said, “Wolverine is on the move.”
President Tillman was hustled from the situation room, up the stairs to the South Portico entry, and then out onto the South Lawn where three identical MV-22 Ospreys sat, nose to tail, their massive rotors a blur of motion atop upturned engine nacelles.
The air outside smelled of the kerosene-tinged exhaust produced by the three pairs of Rolls Royce AE 1107C engines whining away on the trio of hulking aircraft. Colorful leaves swirled in the tempest produced by the down blast created by Marine One, but a short sprint from the White House and already going light on its tricycle landing gear.
And sprint was exactly what the President and his security detail did. Head down and surrounded by armed agents, President Tillman, once a track and field standout at the University of Michigan, ran the entire distance from the White House to Marine One—the nearest of the three dark-green Ospreys.
Drawn by the mechanical contraptions loitering noisily on the South Lawn, dead things—Zips and slow-movers alike—found their forward advance stalled by the chest-high perimeter fencing. Now and then a Zip would hit the crush of undead from behind at full speed and make its way up and over and onto the lawn.
At first, Secret Service Uniformed Division officers wearing windbreakers over body armor and brandishing M4 carbines eliminated the random Zips as soon as a breach occurred.
Now, after having been wheels down for nearly five minutes, the effect the Ospreys were having on the dead was noticeable. And dangerous. Because the number of Zips making their way over the fencing and onto the White House grounds easily outnumbered the men and women assembled to protect the awaiting Ospreys.
Just as President Tillman set foot on Marine One’s rear ramp, a pair of Zips came loping in from the west. As fast as the threats had appeared, the former SEAL with the football reacted.
Letting go of the suitcase, he gripped his MP7’s stunted forestock with his newly freed hand and shouldered the weapon. Going to a knee, the agent engaged the first Zip, dropping it well beyond Marine One’s rear ramp with a trio of 4.6 mm x 30 bullets fired single shot. Zip number two was just receiving a face full of congealed blood and brain tissue from Zip number one when the agent’s second volley tore into its neck and chin. Lower jaw bouncing around on a tether of shiny muscle, the female Zip continued to advance.
Disregarding his own safety, the agent rose and, tethered football carving a furrow in the lush lawn, launched himself at the Zip’s legs.
President Tillman was ducking his head and mounting the ramp when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the agent’s takedown of the second Zip. What he didn’t see as he was pushed forcibly into a nearby seat by an agent and a Marine crew chief descended to loop safety belts over his shoulders, was the agent who had been to his left delivering a lethal double-tap to the already face-shot Zip.
The ramp was just motoring up and the Marine crew chief was cinching Tillman’s belt when the pair of trailing agents tumbled inside, football safe and sound, and both men unscathed.
As Marine One launched vertically into the gray October sky, President Tillman was peering out the hip window and watching the Osprey carrying key cabinet members as it went wheels up.
He saw agents on the ground engaging dead pouring through a failed section of perimeter fence. Licks of flame lanced from their weapons and brass tumbled to the grass as they fought valiantly to the last man.
By the time the third Osprey lifted into the air and cleared the skeletal branches on the trees bordering the South Lawn, it looked to President Tillman as if a soccer match had just ended and hundreds of jubilant fans had spilled onto the pitch.
Donning a pair of headphones offered to him by the Marine crew chief, the President heard one of the Marine aviators up front say, “The White House has fallen.”
Chapter 20
Fort Myers, Florida
Riker shuttled his haul from the RaceTrac to the Shelby. He set the cans by the pump and handed the bags to Tara through her open window.
Nodding toward the backseat, he said, “Steve-O’s throwing off more BTUs than a space heater. That burn can’t feel good. There’s some aloe vera lotion in one of the bags.”
As Tara fished the lotion from the bag, she said, “Let me guess, twenty bucks a gallon?”
Riker nodded reluctantly.
Lips pursed, Tara examined the colorful bottle. “Tropical scented aloe vera?”
“All they had.”
Without another word on the matter, Tara pulsed her window up.
***
Ten minutes later, Riker had topped off the Ford’s tank with supreme and was working on filling the third spare gas can when he felt something being jabbed into his ribs. Down on one knee, with his prosthesis supporting most of his weight, put him at a severe disadvantage. And to add insult to injury, the person holding to his ribs what he assumed to be a gun, either through dumb luck or calculated strategy, was doing so on his left side.
Glancing at the Shelby’s passenger wing mirror, Riker saw his sister in the reflection. She was staring down at her phone and totally oblivious to his current predicament.
If Steve-O was watching his back, Riker couldn’t tell due to the heavy tint on the crew cab windows.
The muzzle moved up to his left armpit as the person wielding it shifted their weight and leaned in real close.
“Don’t move, motherfucker.”
The male voice sounded familiar to Riker. The beer breath convinced him it was one of the teens from the store.
Head down, Riker saw only the oil-stained cement, the toes of a pair of spotless, leather Nike high-tops, and the gas can he had been in the midst of filling.
Though he knew the answer to the question, he asked anyway. “What do you want?”
“That wad of Benjamins in yo’ pocket, for starters. And then you can give me that big ass watch on yo’ wrist. And when you’re done with that, dig out yo’ wallet.”
Two attempted robberies in the same day, thought Riker. Wondering about the odds of it happening, he craned to see the store, but his view was blocked by the gas pump. Working to comply with the first order, he said, “Where’s your buddy? He not into robbing people of their hard-earned money? I bet he’s into earning his keep? Am I right?”
“Just do what I asked,” growled the robber.
The muzzle slipped lower on Riker’s side. Feeling it being pushed hard against where he guessed his liver to be, he handed over the money. As he did, he heard the tell-tale sound of one of the two windows above his head being run down.
Then three things happened near simultaneously.
First, Riker heard Tara tell the person holding him up that she was going to “blow the afro off your head.”
Then he felt the muzzle shift away as, presumably, Afro looked to see what kind of
danger he had gotten himself into.
Finally, just as Riker was about to make a go for Afro’s gun, the kid cried, “Don’t shoot. Please, ma’am … do not shoot me. It’s just a—”
Taking advantage of the lapse in Afro’s vigilance, Riker dipped his right shoulder and fired his left elbow at where he suspected Afro’s head to be.
Propelled by fast-twitch muscles toned from a combination of genetics and daily pushups, the lightning-quick move swept Afro’s gun hand away, then kept tracking on a counterclockwise upward arc.
The impact was jarring for both Riker and his would-be assailant.
With the equal and opposite component of Newton’s Law kicking in, Riker lost his balance and fell forward.
The robber’s plea for mercy was cut short by the breath-robbing blow to his ribs.
The distinct sound of bones breaking was not lost on Riker as his right shoulder, keeping pace with the left’s rotation, brought his upper body around full circle. Breath exiting his lungs, he landed flat on his back, staring into Afro’s scrunched-up mug and seeing in the kid’s hand not a gun, but a rusty Phillips-head screwdriver.
In the next beat, mouth working like a fish out of water, Afro dropped the tool, clutched his ribs, and fell backward, ending up tangled in a dangling hose and wedged tightly between the pair of opposing gas pumps.
Riker came to rest stretched out beside the truck and trying to find his own wind. An arm’s reach in front of his upturned face was Tara. She was hanging out the window with his Sig Sauer clutched in a two-handed grip. It looked ridiculous in her small hands. To her credit, the weapon was not wavering. Riker was also pleased to see the safety thrown and her trigger finger braced alongside the pistol’s frame.
As Riker worked to right himself, he saw the kid’s hand snake out and palm the wad of cash. When he looked up at Tara, she was gesturing toward the street with the Sig’s muzzle.
Voice full of menace, she said, “Drop the cash and get the fuck out of here.”
Without a word, Afro flipped the folded-up money at Riker, scrambled to his feet, and sprinted across the parking lot toward where his buddy was loitering and drinking from a bottle in a brown bag.
Ignoring the cash scattered on the ground, Riker reached up and tapped Tara’s elbow. “Thanks, Sis. But you better put that away before someone calls the police on us.”
There was a soft click as she engaged the safety. As she drew the pistol into the cab, she said, “I tried to call the police on him.”
“And?”
“I got the stock ‘all circuits are busy’ message.” Her brows lifted as she said, “That kid was empowered. Makes me think Fort Myers’ PD has a lot on their plate.”
“You may have a point,” said Riker as he policed up the scattered bills. “Nonetheless, we don’t need to draw that kind of attention to us. Gas. Food. Then we’re on the move north.” He made a face when it occurred to him he still had to pee.
“All that Florida/Georgia line talk worrying you?”
He nodded, then resumed filling the remaining gas cans. After capping the third can and starting in on the fourth, he told Tara what was really bothering him.
She listened without interruption, then said, “This Volkov may be on to something. I don’t think our government let Romero go on purpose. Still, their actions after the fact really suck. Men in black. All those black Suburbans. The MRAPs and unmarked helicopters.” Now she was the one shaking her head. “And you know what they say about the cover-up.”
Capping the final can, Riker rose and placed it in the bed with the others. Turning back to Tara, he said, “The cover-up is almost always worse than the crime.” He made a quick recon of their surroundings. Seeing only a man and woman fueling their respective vehicles at the far pumps, and a smattering of vehicles headed toward the interstate, he turned back to Tara. “I’m not so sure about that in this instance. Anything as deadly as Romero needed to be kept under lock and key. If you ask me, they should have never engineered something like it in the first place.”
After lifting the tailgate and locking the tonneau, Riker took his seat in the Shelby. Sniffing the air in the cab, he said, “All of a sudden I crave a piña colada.”
“That’s funny,” Steve-O said. “I have a craving for coconut cream pie.”
“Maybe we can find a sit-down and sate both of our cravings.”
Shooting Riker the look, Tara said, “Virgin piña colada.”
Voice taking a serious tone, Riker said, “Back to the subject at hand. There was that jet on the tarmac at Heathrow, and now Volkov and all his sword rattling. I have a bad feeling that Romero is not only in the U.K. and Russia, I’m afraid it could have spread all over the globe.”
“How?” shot Tara. “It’s only been a week since those dead things started showing up.”
Riker fired up the motor and eased Dolly into traffic, heading east toward the interstate to, hopefully, a rendezvous with a symbol recognizable the world over.
Stopping at the series of traffic lights metering the flow to the freeway ramps, he said, “A week is an eternity, Sis. How many international flights does JFK service in a week? How about Logan? Reagan? Atlanta?”
Unable to fathom the number of people going through Atlanta on a busy travel day, let alone all of them combined, Tara merely shook her head.
The familiar symbol Riker had spotted from the freeway was on the far side of the shopping mall. It was yellow and decorated one of the last signs in a long row of them rising up above various fast food joints. As they passed a Taco Bell, PDQ, and Zaxby’s Chicken Fingers and Buffalo Wings—all darkened and surrounded by empty parking lots—Steve-O said, “Closed. Closed. Closed.”
Riker pointed across the dash. He said, “But lookie right there. Your favorite is all lit up and open for business.”
Steve-O put his elbows on the seatbacks. “You said no more McDonalds.”
“I worked Mickey Dees in high school,” Riker said. “Let’s just say I had my fill of the Golden Arches.”
“And then some,” added Tara, smiling. “You always hooked us up at home. I couldn’t wait for the McRib to come back every year.”
Riker met Steve-O’s gaze in the rearview. “We can find somewhere else.”
“I doubt if we’re going to find a place like the Iron Pan around here,” Tara said.
Turning into the drive-thru lane, Riker said, “I can already smell the fries cooking. Something that once you’ve been part of the team, you will never forget.”
Tara and Steve-O ordered Big Macs, fries, and Cokes. Riker opted for just coffee. The largest they’d sell him. It came in a thirty-two-ounce cup that brought a smile to his face.
Before driving away, Riker dug into the bag and passed out the food.
Steve-O presented the box of fries to Riker. “Want one?”
Leaning away from the offering, Riker said, “I’ve eaten enough of those to last two lifetimes. Thank you, though.”
While Tara and Steve-O made quick work of the fast food, Riker did his best to breathe through his mouth and backtracked to the ramp to I-75 northbound, where he turned right. Halfway down the onramp, where turning to go back wasn’t an option, he conceded that once again he’d forgotten he needed to pee.
“You gotta be kidding me,” said Tara, jamming a half-dozen fries into her open mouth. “How’d you manage that?”
The grass infield with the airport shuttles and body bags was coming up on the left. Answering Tara’s question, Riker said, “I was too preoccupied with what was on television to ask Enrique for a key.”
“Then having that screwdriver jabbed into your ribs,” Tara said, “You thinking it was a gun and all … it’s a wonder you didn’t piss yourself right then and there. No sense in dying with a full bladder.”
“Depends,” said Riker, expecting at least one of the others to get the joke.
Crickets.
Tara was busy staring at a red SUV negotiating a narrow lane left between the lined-up shuttl
e vans and abandoned civilian vehicles. She thought it was the same Toyota 4Runner that had followed them across the preserve, only now it wasn’t loaded down with people. There was a single soldier at the wheel, and it was being driven slow and deliberate, not like it was stolen and the driver was running from the law.
The grassy area north of the parked vehicles was mostly mud and marred by tire tracks. Only explanation Tara could think of was that maybe the infield had been used as a staging area for the military vehicles stationed on the exit ramps south of here.
As the 4Runner came to a halt on the periphery of the civilian vehicles, her attention was drawn to a pair of guardsmen escorting a blonde woman through the warren of civilian vehicles. Noting the torn and soiled yellow top hanging off the woman, Tara realized who she was looking at.
Faster on the draw, Steve-O said, “That’s the Pretty Lady who was wading in the swamp.”
Craning to see what Steve-O was alluding to, Riker got a good look at both the woman and the soldiers. Instead of noting what she was wearing, he keyed in on the device spanning the distance between her neck and the soldier guiding her ahead of him.
“Damn,” he said. “They’re using one of those dog catcher’s thingies to keep her from getting to them.”
“Damn smart,” Tara said. “She looked hungry coming out of the pond back there. I bet the folks in the 4Runner had no idea what they were getting themselves into.”
As the ramp widened and Riker steered the Shelby back onto the interstate, he said, “I tried warning them.”
Tara shifted in her seat to pick up the action through the rear window. “The other soldier has a gun aimed at it.”
Riker nodded. “I saw that, too.”
Sighing, Tara said, “This shit’s a mirror image of what they did to us at the high school. I’m thinking we slipped out of Fort Myers just ahead of it being put under quarantine.”
Watching the scene recede in his wing mirror, Riker agreed with Tara’s assessment. Turning his attention to the road ahead, he added, “And we all know how well that turned out for Middletown.”
The Plan Page 12