The Regent

by Marcus Richardson

  Police tape fluttered in the rain and wind across the road blocking access to the Scottish Parliament Building. Figures moved in the gloom, barely seen through the sheets of falling rain. She was confident no one had seen her. Keeping her hand on the rifle, Jayne turned and strolled uphill toward the castle. She stepped under the awning of an adjacent building to temporarily get out of the rain, and pulled her cellphone free from its little thigh holster.

  The person she dialed answered on the first ring. “Yes?”

  “It’s me,” she said, pausing for the person to shit their pants and then recover. “Are you ready?”

  “I…y-y-yeah, yes,” the man stammered.

  Jayne smiled, a trickle of water dripping off the tip of her nose. She rubbed it with her free hand, alleviating the itch. “Excellent,” she purred.

  Jayne glared down the street toward the National Parliament Building, hidden behind the veil of rain. Svea had forced her hand. Well, if she couldn’t get the senator on the first try, she’d put Phase 2 of her plan into effect and flush them out into the open.

  “I want you to release the accelerant in the National Parliament Building and all the canisters halfway up the Royal Mile. Leave the castle alone. Do you understand?”

  “Da. We will release the canisters at the parliament building and halfway up the road to the castle.”

  “The castle is to remain untouched. If I can catch him in the castle, we can salvage this clusterfuck of a mission. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Da.”

  “Good. Make it happen.”

  “We won’t let you down,” the Russian voice said.

  Jayne frowned. “I sincerely hope not. Whoever survived that debacle in the street met up with 13 down in the tunnels.” Another pause. “Anyone that somehow manages to walk out of these fucking tunnels will have to deal with me for their failure. Pray you don’t join them.”

  Jayne snapped the phone off and put it back in its holster, smiling as the man’s desperate pleas to assure her cut off mid-sentence.

  She stepped out into the rain again and stared up through her wet lashes at the gloomy castle lording over the Royal Mile. Several windows on the upper walls of the fortification glowed with an orange, warm light. As much as she enjoyed getting clean after her excursion in the tunnels, Jayne suddenly felt the coolness of the water as it trickled down between her leather suit and the bare skin of her back.

  She wanted a warm shower and a fuzzy robe. Jayne frowned. She supposed she needed to check in on His Majesty as well. He was proving quite the inconvenience, but dragging his royal ass with her wasn’t really open for debate. Having just snatched the reins of power, she couldn’t very well leave him alone and isolated in Normandy, could she?

  One corner of her mouth curled as a delicious thought occurred to her. Suppose the king became infected…

  22

  The Cabinet

  President Harris frowned at his assembled Cabinet. “Bottomline, people. What the hell is going on over there?”

  “Frankly, sir, we don’t know,” said Admiral Bennett, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. The grizzled veteran looked like he’d aged ten years in the last six months, but it suited him. He looked leaner, harder, meaner. “As of five minutes ago, we’ve received word of some sort of chemical or gas attack near the Scottish National Parliament Building. Our allies insist they have it well under control, but we can’t even get a consistent answer from them.”

  The Secretary of State, Lewis Strettall, cleared his throat. “In all fairness, they’re dealing with a lot right now, what with the succession and—”

  “I’m not interested, Lewis,” the president said. “I’m interested in what we’re dealing with—namely, an assassination attempt on a newly elected United States Senator. And the timing of this attack, it can’t be coincidence, people.”

  “Available intel points to a strong likelihood that the attacks are timed to disrupt the U.N. summit, yes,” confirmed the Director of the CIA.

  The president stared across the long table at his spymaster. “Who benefits the most, Adrian?”

  Director Stylau grunted, his wide stomach shaking with the effort. “Who doesn’t? Top of the short list is China and Russia—as usual. The North Koreans will get extra time to solidify their beachhead here and prepare for war back home…”

  “There’s going to be nothing they can do. We’ll wipe them off that fucking peninsula,” said General Rykker, Harris’ grim-faced Commandant of the Marine Corps.

  The president raised one hand slightly off the table. “We’ll deal with them in time, Mason. For the moment, I want to know more about the summit—whoever is trying to stop it…can we agree it’s the Council?”

  The NSA Director glanced at her counterpart from the CIA. “We’re not 100% positive that’s the case, Mr. President.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, sir,” she said, shooting another sidelong glance at CIA, “for starters, there’s not much of their upper echelon left.” She lifted a remote from the table in front of her and clicked a button. The projection screen on the wall at the other end of the room lit up and an org chart for the Council appeared. At the top, a picture of King Charles had a large red “X” through it. Underneath him were listed the top-ranking Council members: Shunsuke Murata of Japan, Jean-Claude Legrand from France, Dame Ainslie Howard of England, Xian Liu from Beijing, and Reginald Tillcott from Scotland.

  She pointed the remote at the screen and a red dot appeared over the king. “King Charles is confirmed dead, as are Legrand, and Anna-Lena Brun of the Austrian continent. We’ve yet to discover the whereabouts of Murata, and I think we all know that Reginald Tillcott is most definitely dead.”

  Bennett frowned. “And good riddance—that son of a bitch was behind the nuke that took out Atlanta. It’ll be a hundred years before we can get back in there.”

  “Agreed. Leaving aside the issue of what he knew before he died, there are several other key players who simply vanished after the initial operations. Chief among them is one Jayne Renolds.” She moved the pointer to circle a strikingly beautiful woman with wavy, long blonde hair.

  President Harris resisted the urge to hit something. “I want her head on a plate.”

  The Attorney General nodded. “We’ll get her, Mr. President.”

  “I don’t want a repeat of bin Ladin, Dean.”

  “No, sir,” the AG replied. “We’ll parade her through the streets, put her on trial—it’ll be a spectacle and a warning.”

  The president frowned. “No technicalities—”

  “No, sir, once we catch her, she’s going to fry. I guarantee it.”

  Admiral Bennett grunted. “One way or another, she’s a dead woman walking.”

  The president glared at the picture of the woman responsible for executing President Barron…Vice President Barron. No matter that his reign was completely unconstitutional, to at least half the country he was the sitting president, and she killed him in cold blood. Well…one of her men did, but she gave the order.

  He clenched his fist. “She cannot be allowed to escape justice on this, people. The murder of the President of the United States—leaving aside whether he was legitimate or not—cannot and will not be tolerated.”

  “If the summit is delayed and the U.N. is convinced to force us to sue for peace—” Director Stylau began.

  General Rykker snorted. “Sue for peace,” he scoffed. “That’s a good one.”

  “—she’ll be that much harder to find,” Stylau finished, shooting a look at General Rykker.

  “We’re hearing chatter that she’s gathering the remnants of the Council together under the new king.”

  The president sighed. “How many kings do these people have?”

  Stylau smirked. “This one’s just a kid. The next in line after him is an old man. Distant cousin to Charles. The line’s petering out.”

  “It’s not the pretender king we have to worry about, it’s the power-mad fools in the Cou
ncil who are causing all the problems,” Admiral Bennett replied.

  “So what are my options?” asked the president. “What’s the time frame here?”

  Director Stylau cleared his throat. “Well, sir, if the chaos over there in Scotland continues for another day or so, my money has the U.N. voting to delay—or cancel—the summit. Either way, it’s going to force our hand.”

  “You’re talking war with North Korea,” the president said.

  Stylau nodded. “At a minimum. If we attack the Koreans, we can expect China, and to a lesser extent, Russia, to get involved in some capacity—whether it be supply chain organization or direct troop involvement. Analysis indicates they’re prepping for conflict, but not ready to commit to a full-on war with us at the moment. They’re much more comfortable fighting by proxy.”

  “They want us weakened by a prolonged conflict, sir,” warned Admiral Bennett.

  “How soon can we take back our country?” asked the president.

  Admiral Bennet glanced at the other leaders of the Uniformed Services. “Say the word, sir, and we’ll liberate the coast in less than a month. We’ve been stockpiling materials and bringing troops home for the past six months. The bulk of our warfighters are back on American soil for the first time since World War II and they’re itching to get into it with the NKors.”

  “How?” asked the president.

  “4th ID will roll straight out of Colorado and cut the OZ in half,” said Bennett.

  “We won’t stop till they hit the Pacific,” said the Chief of Staff of the Army.

  “The bulk of the Air Force will reestablish air dominance and concentrate on providing support for the army while ranging over the entire OZ and striking targets of opportunity, focusing on SAM sites and radar installations,” continued Bennett. “Once ground forces reach the ocean, they’ll turn north and roll up the NKors to the Canadian border. Meanwhile, 6th fleet is going to pummel the coast and deliver the largest Marine Expeditionary Force deployed since World War I to southern California.”

  “We’re going to cut a bloody swath straight through to New Mexico, sir,” General Rykker said, his voice sounding like gravel in a coffee grinder. “Then we’ll circle back and finish off the stragglers.”

  “At the same time, we’ll have 7th Fleet out of Pearl,” Admiral Bennett continued, “and STRATCOM tighten the noose on the Korean peninsula. We’ve positioned surface assets out there to keep the Chinese and Russians guessing and moved our newest Virginia-class fast-attack subs into position for a surgical strike with several waves of Tomahawks.”

  “Nuclear contingencies?” asked the president as he removed his glasses.

  “Everything is on the table at this point, sir. If the rumors of them placing SCUD-like launchers in the OZ are true, we can expect tactical nukes to fly. In that eventuality, I recommend a full strategic spread. Get it over with in one fell swoop,” Admiral Bennett replied.

  “Won’t that antagonize the Chinese and the Russians?”

  “More than anything, sir, it’ll demonstrate our determination and if we turn North Korea into a self-illuminated glass parking lot, they’ll think twice about fucking with us…pardon my French, sir.”

  The president smiled. “I appreciate plain talk in all its many forms, Admiral.” His smile faded. “And the political blowback if we do this?”

  “Unilateral action is a great way to piss off most of the U.N.,” Secretary Strettall replied. “We’re already under a lot of pressure for the destabilizing effect of the sudden withdrawal of our troops from around the world. There’s near-anarchy in a lot of third-world countries right now, not to mention the Middle East. The Israelis—”

  “The Israelis know we’re not going to abandon them—we’ve got two carrier battle groups sitting in the Med just offshore,” Admiral Bennett interrupted. “They’re surrounded, but they’ve always been surrounded.”

  “Yes,” Secretary Strettall said, “but I’m hearing rumors of sanctions—”

  “Those windbags in the U.N. wouldn’t dare sanction us,” the president said.

  “They’re already drafting resolutions, from what I hear. Especially Iran and the Turks.”

  “Do they have the votes?” asked Admiral Bennett.

  “Right now? No. But it’s getting closer with every report that I hear. Someone’s tipping them off that we’re prepping for war.”

  23

  Jayne’s Gift

  Danika staggered through the final door and gasped as she tumbled into what felt like a full-on monsoon. Blinking through the rivulets of dirt running down her face, she tilted her head back and took a deep breath of cleansing, wet air. Thunder rumbled overhead, shaking her ribcage. It seemed like the whole River Klarälven had been ripped from Sweden and poured from the heavens.

  She raised her arms and spread them to the side, holding her pistol by the trigger guard and her captured carbine from the shoulder strap. Within seconds, half a dozen local cops, swaddled in bright yellow ponchos converged on her with weapons drawn, all screaming different things.

  “Drop the weapons!”

  “Down on the ground!”

  “You there, keep your arms where we can see them!”

  “Freeze!”

  Danika kept her eyes closed and her face pointed toward the heavens, letting the rain wash the filth and dust and blood from her face. Truth be told, she hated tight spaces, especially tunnels. She never wanted to go back into those again. Her ears were still ringing.

  Eventually, the local constables figured out that they were all shouting conflicting commands and they fell silent. That was her cue.

  Danika lowered her face and opened her eyes, then smiled. “Sorry to cause such a ruckus, boys. I’m with Senator Tecumseh. My name and ID badge are in my left pants pocket.”

  She refrained from explaining to them that had she chosen to do so, she could’ve killed them all before the first man got a shot off. She knew they were there when she threw back the wooden door and she calmly waited for them to approach her. In her opinion, she had been forced to wait for too long. The locals were overwhelmed—focused on the distraction that Jayne had caused—and not paying attention to the tunnel system. That could be a costly mistake.

  One of the cops stepped forward, motioning for the others to lower their weapons, since she had clearly posed no threat and remained subdued.

  “Sorry for the trouble, ma’am, but you’ve given us quite the fright.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, blinking through the rain. “You haven’t heard from Senator Tecumseh, have you?”

  “I’m afraid not—we’ve been out here since the bombing. There’s been plenty of radio chatter, and most of the politicians have been under lockdown at the parliament building or the castle,” he said, angling his head up the Royal Mile.

  Danika shifted her gaze and in the distance, just a gray smudge on the horizon, sat Edinburgh Castle. She was halfway up the Royal Mile. Turning to her left, looking down the street and northeast, Holyrood Palace was an equally gray smudge illuminated by blinking dome lights on cop cars blocking the road.

  “Damn,” she muttered. “I need a radio.”

  “Sorry to be a stickler, but I’ll need your identification first,” the cop said, with genuine apology in his voice. “And I’ll hold those for you…” he said, holding out his hands for her weapons.

  Trusting fellow, aren’t you?

  Danika handed over her sidearm and Gregor’s AK-47 with an understanding nod. “Of course.” She pulled out her ID and flicked the rain off it for his inspection. His eyes scanned the card, then looked at her and back to the card again, examining the photograph. Satisfied, he nodded.

  “She’s clear,” he said, half over his shoulder. All but one of the other police officers turned and went back to their duties.

  He handed the weapons back to Danika. “Blimey…mind telling me what the bloody hell you were doing in the tunnels?”

  She holstered her pistol and slung the AK over her sho
ulder. “The senator’s convoy was attacked on the way to the parliament building. We took refuge in the tunnels and were attacked again.”

  “Bloody hell!” the cop said, his face registering complete surprise. “We’ve heard nothing—”

  “I don’t have time to explain. I need to get to a radio,” Danika said urgently. “The senator’s life may be in danger.”

  “I’d give you mine,” the man said, shaking his head, “but the bloody thing’s on the fritz.”

  Danika nodded. “I’m not surprised—they’re jamming the radios. I doubt they have the power to disable the command center, though,” Danika mused.

  “That won’t be possible—we can’t get you in there,” the cop said. “Everything under lockdown, y’see. No one goes in, no one goes out. Came straight from the top, aye?” He raised his eyebrows at her expression. “Believe you me, I’d like nothing more than to get out of this bleedin’ rain, grand soft evening though it is,” he said glancing up at the sky. Another peal of thunder rumbled overhead, echoing off 18th century buildings lining the streets.

  “I’ve got to try,” she said. “Unless you’re willing to lend me some men, night-vision optics, and tracking gear to head back into the tunnels?”

  The cop scoffed at the idea. “Not bloody likely! Right then, follow me, we’ll try the unit in my squad.”

  They took off at a jog through the pouring rain, Danika shielding her eyes with her free hand as she went. As they reached the officer’s car, she blinked in the glare of the blue-and-white strobe lights and noticed another officer approaching from the opposite side of the street. He held up a clear plastic bag like some sort of trophy.

  “Found another one, Tommy!” the man yelled over the drumming of the rain on the car’s roof and hood.

  “Bollocks,” Tommy muttered.

  “Found what?” Danika asked, squinting. “What is that?”

  The newcomer approached her and after a nod from Tommy, held up the bag for her perusal. Inside the bag was a plain gray cylinder, engraved with curious squiggles and circles down one length in a tight column. It had a solid, heavy feel to it, though it looked like burnished aluminum. A seam encircled the circumference of the cylinder two-thirds of the length from one end. She turned the bag over in her hands and noticed two small sealed holes—one on the top, and one on the bottom. She looked up at the cops.