[Luke Stone 02.0] Oath of Office

by Jack Mars

  “This is the attack, Trudy. Do you understand me? Don’t ask rhetorical questions. Move your ass. We’ve still got planes in the sky that we control, with hazmat suits and laser thermometers, right? Start there. Find the closest ones and divert them to Charleston. Get Ron Begley at Homeland Security on the phone and tell him what’s happening. Then make a priority call list, and work down it. You’re a smart cookie. You know what to do.”

  Trudy’s face trembled. She seemed almost ready to cry. “We’re suspended, Luke. We have no resources. We’re probably going to be disbanded.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I understand all that.”

  “What if no one takes my call?” Trudy said. “Why would they? Then what?”

  In an instant, Luke had lost all patience. It was too much. They had been behind from the beginning, and they had never caught up. Not even close. The raid on Omar had failed. A disaster was unfolding. But this wasn’t the time for Trudy to melt down and become weak. This was the time for her, and for everyone else, to blast headfirst through brick walls.

  “Trudy, you see this building we’re standing in?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s on a fucking military base! If you can’t get anyone to take your call, then run down the hallways screaming and tackle the first admiral you see. Lie. Impersonate someone. Overstep your authority. I don’t care how you do it, but tell decision makers that an attack has begun, and start moving people and material to Charleston. Do it now!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  6:29 p.m.

  United States Naval Observatory – Washington DC

  Susan Hopkins fiddled while Rome burned.

  When she couldn’t stand it anymore, she had excused herself from the Situation Room, and had retreated upstairs here to her study. She stood at the big bay window, staring out at the beautiful rolling lawns of the Naval Observatory campus. The afternoon sun was moving west, casting perfect spring light.

  For years, Pierre had slowly been collecting originals by the late 1800s Scottish painter Patrick William Adam. Adam’s paintings played with light streaming through windows in such a delightful way. The light coming through this window always reminded her of those paintings.

  For the past five years, she had lived in this house as Vice President. She loved it here. In the old days, at this time of the afternoon, she might have gone out with a couple of Secret Service men and jogged a few loops around the grounds. Those years were a time of optimism, of stirring speeches, of meeting and greeting thousands of hopeful Americans. It seemed like a lifetime ago now.

  Richard Monk stood behind her. She felt him there, more than saw him. It was interesting how you could know a person just by the feeling they brought with them into a room. Richard probably wanted to update her as a bad situation only grew worse. Richard had been a good chief-of-staff during her fun-loving, easygoing days as Veep. She was beginning to suspect that he was the wrong man for this job.

  “Susan?”

  She didn’t turn around. “Yes.”

  “About ten minutes ago, Wesley Drinan shot himself in the head in his office at Galveston National Lab. Staff members down the hall heard the shot. When they reached his office, they found him with live coverage of Charleston on his computer.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Yes. He left a note on his desk.”

  “What did it say?”

  “It said: I’m so very sorry.”

  She sighed. “I guess he really did have that affair.”

  “I guess he did. His assistant told me Drinan worked in the private sector in Japan for twelve years. He had an affinity for Japanese traditional culture. It used to be important for a Japanese leader to commit suicide after a public failure or disgrace.”

  Susan shrugged. To her, it sounded more like Drinan took the easy way out, and found a way to avoid the punishment he deserved. She felt no compassion for him, no forgiveness, no… feeling at all.

  “Drinan was a punk,” she said. “He wasn’t a leader.”

  There was a pause between them. Susan felt a hesitancy on Richard’s part, but she still didn’t turn around.

  “Next order of business, please.”

  “City of Charleston,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “The latest estimate is that more than a hundred thousand people have been quarantined in the southern half of the Charleston peninsula. There are widespread reports of looting. Crowds of teenagers are running through the streets, committing random assaults. No Ebola symptoms have been observed yet by drone-mounted cameras, or on footage uploaded to the internet by people trapped inside the quarantine zone.”

  “How many people were sprayed?” Susan said.

  “Best guess? Between three hundred and five hundred.”

  “And the transmission rate again?”

  “No one is sure among humans, but in the one test they did on monkeys, very nearly one hundred percent.”

  “Mortality rate?”

  He hesitated.

  “Mortality rate, Richard?”

  “Again, all we have is that one experiment, and it wasn’t on humans, but possibly as high as ninety-four percent.”

  She knew it was something like that, but to hear him say it was like a punch in the gut. Her hands tightened into fists. Her teeth clenched. She squeezed her eyes shut as silent tears streamed down her face.

  “You’re telling me,” she said, “that ninety-four thousand people are likely to die?”

  “I don’t know, Susan. No one knows.”

  Those people were a lost cause, she realized. That alone was almost too horrible to think about, but if the disease made it out of the city and into the mainstream population… No. It was impossible. She wouldn’t let it be true.

  “We can’t let the disease get out of the city,” she said.

  “On that score, we seem to be doing okay,” he said. “The local police and fire departments closed the streets and roads a mile north of the spray zone within ten minutes of the attack. Permanent barriers and checkpoints are being erected as we speak by installation support personnel from the 628th Air Base Wing from Joint Base Charleston, which is located at the Charleston International Airport. National Guard troops are pouring into the area from throughout South Carolina and Georgia, and are amassing at the airport.”

  “That sounds all right,” she said. It even sounded positive, but it was hard to feel positive given the circumstances.

  Richard went on. “Coast Guard patrol boats were moved into strategic placements along the Cooper and Ashley Rivers, and at the mouth of the harbor, all within fifteen minutes, and have since been augmented by Navy gun ships. All water traffic is shut down until further notice. There is a general maritime shoot-to-kill order, which has been communicated on all radio channels used by commercial, private, and fishing interests. The unmistakable message is if you try to leave the city by sea, we will kill you.”

  Susan finally turned around. It was startling to see Richard there. She had forgotten what he looked like. He looked almost like a men’s magazine model, maybe just a little too old and not quite handsome enough. But the body was right. Richard spent a lot of time in the gym.

  “Shoot-to-kill?” she said. “Who ordered that?”

  He shook his head. “Luke Stone ordered it. On your authority. He’s a megalomaniac, Susan. He’s in Key West, operating a command center out of the Naval Air Station, and has convinced everyone he still works directly for the White House. He has seized control of elements of FEMA, the Coast Guard, the Navy, the Air Force, and the Centers for Disease Control.”

  Richard looked at the tablet computer in his hand. “He mobilized more than three hundred doctors and nurses, volunteers with Doctors Without Borders, and is flying them to Charleston International Airport and Savannah Airport on any available aircraft. Then he apparently plans to airlift them by helicopter to the roof of Roper Hospital in downtown Charleston. He commandeered three thousand CDC hazmat suits and diverted them to the
quarantine zone. He purchased a quarter million gallons of spring water from a massive Food Lion distribution center about forty miles north of Charleston, and has them trucking it down to the city. The first twenty thousand gallons arrived in a convoy of trailer trucks about fifteen minutes ago. I guess no one cancelled his SRT credit card, so he’s running it up and letting it rip.”

  Susan tried to think about what Richard was saying.

  “Stone has eviscerated the Posse Comitatus Act,” Richard said. “He is putting military units everywhere, and mingling them with civilian resources. He is doing this on no one’s authority but his own. He has misrepresented himself and his team to the highest ranking officers in the United States military. You’re worried about a coup? Stone has more or less launched one this afternoon. And he did it in the middle of a terror attack, about an hour after violating Cuban airspace and torturing a member of the Saudi royal family. He’s had a busy day.”

  “What are we doing?”

  Richard put his hands in the air. “What choice do we have? He got out ahead of us. We’re coordinating resources with him.”

  “Okay,” Susan said.

  “Okay?”

  “Yes, it’s okay.”

  “What do we do about him?”

  She shrugged. “It sounds like he did the best job he could, and he did it in a pinch. Once the situation stabilizes, have someone go in and formally relieve him of command. Don’t tell anyone that he was already relieved of duty earlier today.”

  “Should we arrest him?”

  She shook her head. “No. Only if he refuses the order to stand down.”

  “So if he hands over command…”

  “Yes, Richard. Just put him on a plane and send him home.”

  *

  An hour had passed. She had barely moved.

  She remained at the window. She watched the light change, then change again, as the sun moved lower in the western sky. It was now nearly 7:30 p.m. She stood and stood, half wishing that a sniper was out there, centering her in his gun sights.

  Pierre came in.

  She turned to him. He was just himself, always Pierre, in a pair of brown corduroy pants, a ratty favorite sweater of his with holes chewed through it by his dogs, and penny loafers with no socks on his feet. His hair was tousled and standing up in tufts.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi yourself.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “I took a nap.”

  She nodded. “Good. How are the girls?”

  “They’re okay. Doing girl things. Fashion magazines. Facebook. YouTube. They’re getting a little antsy, truth be told.”

  “I figured.”

  He seemed about to speak. Then he stopped.

  She shook her head and managed a smile. She realized it was a faint ghost of the nine-thousand-watt smile for which she was known.

  “Okay, Petey. Out with it. I’ve got the worst terror attack in human history on my hands, so I can’t be begging you for the latest news.”

  He sighed. “We’re leaving. I’m taking the girls home. We’re going to the Malibu house, on the beach, away from all the craziness. I don’t feel like the girls are safe here, and there’s no way you can guarantee their safety.”

  “We’re surrounded by the Secret Service,” Susan said. “And we’re inside a facility that has multiple checkpoints to gain entry. I think we’re about as safe as anywhere in the country right now.”

  Pierre didn’t miss a beat. “The Secret Service didn’t save Thomas Hayes.”

  Susan had no answer for that.

  “The country has gone insane, Susan. Did you know that in the past half hour, every store in America has run out of plastic sheeting and duct tape? It’s true. People are wrapping their homes in plastic, and then barricading themselves inside. Supermarket shelves are emptying of everything. Water, canned food, flashlights, batteries. Forget about produce. Both Walmart and Kmart have run out of guns and ammunition. I don’t mean a Walmart and a Kmart. I mean hundreds of stores, everywhere across the country. The country is awash in guns, and people are buying up whatever guns are left.”

  Susan nodded. “It’s okay, Pierre. I understand. You want the girls to be safe, and I appreciate that. I want them to be safe, too. Washington, DC, could be the next target. I doubt Malibu Beach will be. I’ll miss you all, but you should go. When do you plan on leaving?”

  He shrugged. “Now. In an hour. Anytime. The plane is here. It’s at Reagan National, gassed up and ready. I’m going to take a shower, get the girls packed up, and then we’re going. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it one more time. I want you to come with us. There’s no shame in leaving all this behind. You didn’t ask for it. It was thrust upon you.”

  “I can’t do it, Pierre. You know that. I took an oath. I promised to faithfully carry out my duties, and to the best of my ability. If I just leave now…” She shook her head. “I have more ability than that.”

  He nodded. “I know. I just wanted to make the offer. And it still stands. If you wake up tomorrow morning and you want to quit, just let me know. I’ll send a plane.”

  They came together and hugged. There was less emotion to it now. Susan didn’t need his support. She was tired. In fact, she was more than tired. She was ragged. She had been in shock, but she was going to rally. The country needed her, and she needed to stand up for them.

  A knock came at the door.

  “Yes.”

  “Madame President?” came a voice from the other side. “They sent me to ask if you’re planning to return to the Situation Room.”

  She and Pierre pulled apart just slightly. She looked into his eyes and she couldn’t help but smile. He was a good man. He was a great dad. He was very smart. He was trying to change the world.

  She loved him. She loved their daughters. She loved the life they had lived together, as strange as outsiders might find it. There was no gap. There was no hurt. There was no misunderstanding. Everything was right there, and it was good.

  “I’ll be right down,” she said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  8:15 p.m.

  Joint Interagency Task Force South, Naval Air Station Key West

  Luke stepped out into a concrete yard between buildings and stared out at the sky. To the west, the sun was very low in the sky, a giant orange orb, heading to the water. The sky was pink, framed by the palm trees at the edge of the base. A hot breeze blew in from the Gulf of Mexico.

  Five minutes ago, an admiral from the Joint Interagency Task Force, a logistics commander, had come into the command center with a phalanx of officers and four military policemen. He handed Luke his phone.

  “Stone.”

  “Stone, this is Richard Monk, Susan’s chief-of-staff.”

  “Hi, Richard, I’m a little busy right now.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re surrendering command to Admiral Van Horn. Right now. There are two ways to do it, the easy way and the hard way. The easy way is to shake hands with the admiral and announce the transition to everyone in the command center. The hard way is to be dragged out by MPs, and then charged with a list of felonies as long as my arm. I want to make something clear to you. Are you listening? You don’t work for the Special Response Team. There is no Special Response Team. So that’s the deal. Voluntarily surrender command, or go to prison. It’s your choice.”

  The line went dead. Luke stared at the phone in disbelief. Monk had hung up on him again. The guy had zero phone etiquette. How had he slithered his way up to chief-of-staff?

  Luke extended his hand to the admiral. “Admiral Van Horn? It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  The admiral smiled. “You’ve done a hell of a job, son. Ever think of joining the Navy? We could use a man like you.”

  Okay. That was okay. There was no use fighting it. He was tired, and he had commandeered a lot of resources without actually asking anyone for permission. It was as good a time as any to hand them back. In fact, he was a little surprised it had all laste
d this long. He had sent Trudy and Swann back to DC half an hour ago.

  After her initial reluctance, Trudy had stepped up like Luke knew she would. It turned out no one knew the SRT was dead but the White House and the SRT itself. When Trudy Wellington called from the Special Response Team, Office of the President and demanded movement, people hopped to it. Her voice had grown more confident as the minutes passed.

  Ed Newsam had disappeared and not returned. This was Key West, so… Well, he was a big boy and would find his way home on his own.

  He sighed, staring out at the sky, raised his phone and called Becca.

  The phone rang. It just went on and on. Luke felt a nervous tickle in his stomach. Was she ever going to answer? Shouldn’t it have gone to voicemail by now? Was she…

  She picked up. There was a long pause.

  Her voice was guarded. “Hello?”

  “Becca?”

  “Luke.” It was not a friendly greeting.

  He let out a long breath. “Hi, babe,” he said. “Are you guys okay?”

  “We’re fine.”

  “You’re still at the country house?”

  “Yes. Things have been very frightening. Fighter planes have been flying overhead for hours. I bought some plastic sheeting and duct tape at the general store up the road. We’ve got water and canned food in case we have to hole up here for a while. We’re not going back to the city. This thing with Charleston…”

  “I know,” he said.

  “Where are you?” she said, her voice sharpened by an edge of suspicion.

  “I’m in Key West.”

  “I thought you went to Galveston.”

  “I did. It’s a long story.”

  “To be honest, with everything that’s going on, I just figured you were dead.”

  He paused for a second. Okay, this wasn’t the kind of loving conversation he was hoping for. Absence didn’t always make the heart grow fonder.

  “Becca, I’ve had a very busy day. If you were worried, why didn’t you call me?”