by Jay Klages
He sat down at his desk and turned on his laptop. If Associate Sims was in sub-basement two, Poole would never be able to get to him. He’d have to try to draw Sims out with a phone call. But maybe he was elsewhere in the building. Poole would try to rule that out first.
He went to his Microsoft Outlook scheduling program and started searching through the rooms that were booked for meetings. He looked for rooms that were reserved for continuous use at the present time, and scribbled down the numbers CR 2C, CR 3F, BR 4B. He then shut down his laptop again.
Conference room 3F was not too far away. After he walked up and stood outside the door, he didn’t hear any activity. He knocked lightly before opening the door and confirming no one was inside.
Poole walked out from the cubicle bays back to the elevator and took it down to the second floor. When he found CR 2C, he could see a band of light under the door, and heard active discussion inside. He rapped on the door with his knuckle and opened it a crack. He saw four people inside, and recognized one of the two women from Public Relations. They all looked at him a little funny.
“Sorry, wrong room,” he said with a smile and shut the door.
He was now left with BR 4B, which posed a challenge similar to that of the War Room down on SB-2. His badge didn’t allow entry through the door on the fourth floor. Maybe he could knock on the door and someone would let him in. He took the elevator to the fourth floor and stepped out into the foyer, which had two break couches side by side on the carpet and a pair of restrooms. He decided to go and wait inside the men’s bathroom until he heard someone come out the main door.
Instead, six minutes later, the elevator sounded with a bing and Poole heard its door open. He waited until he heard the beep of an access card and came out of the bathroom. The man on his way into the office held the door open for him. Poole recognized the face but couldn’t remember a name.
“Thanks,” Poole said.
He slowed his pace and let the man get a good distance away before he started scanning the rooms. At the end of the hall, he made a right turn and then spotted the placard for BR 4B. There was quiet discussion going on inside, and he could also hear the sound from a speakerphone. He took a few seconds to get his thoughts together before he knocked and pushed on the door, which he found was locked.
Shit.
He knocked again.
CHAPTER 66
Sunday, June 30
2:23 a.m. (EDT)
The White House
President Darryl Greer took the call from Hugh Conroy, director of National Intelligence, with Stanley Hassett, director of the FBI, on the same line. Greer, a Democrat from Missouri, had turned fifty last month and was six months into his first term. He sat on the couch of the anteroom in his boxers and a white T-shirt. His thick gray hair was in a jumble, and his face now had a light salt-and-pepper beard growth.
“Mr. President,” Hassett said, “we have an emergency situation, credible intelligence leading us to believe an attack on Congress, a simultaneous attack on the members’ homes while they’re now in recess, is imminent.”
“Oh my God,” Greer said, his brown eyes snapping into instant focus. He paused, then asked, “Do we know who’s being threatened?”
“No,” Hassett said, “but it’s conceivable that most, if not all of them, could be under threat.”
“Every member?”
“Yes, sir,” Hassett said. “The group leading this is the same one responsible for the deaths of our four agents yesterday.”
“The Chapter,” Greer said.
“Yes, sir.”
Greer had received a few notes on AgriteX and the Chapter from Conroy over the last two mornings as part of the Daily Intelligence Briefing, and Greer had received an additional update on the slain FBI agents at about seven o’clock the prior evening.
“Hugh and I are already en route. Should be there in ten minutes,” Hassett said.
“Okay, I’ll meet you in the Situation Room,” Greer said.
Greer disconnected and took a deep breath. He looked back toward the bedroom and decided to let his wife, Sylvia, sleep for a few more hours. An aide had left some clothes in the bathroom. I don’t think we can move quick enough to stop this. This is going to be absolutely devastating.
He went to the pink marble sink to splash water on his face and wet down and comb his hair.
How could we not have known about this?
CHAPTER 67
Saturday, June 29
11:27 p.m. (PDT)
FBI field office, Portland, Oregon
The briefing room became silent when SOIC-5’s Agent Lockwood said over the speakerphone, “We’re getting word that it appears the prisons are ramping up for an attack.”
“What if their goal is hostages?” Singleton asked. “Have there been any kind of demands communicated?”
“No demands we are aware of, but all hostage rescue teams have been alerted to that possibility,” Lockwood said. “And that’s not going to help much in the next hour. Notifications are being blasted out now, so the early warning can help everyone get to safety or add security quickly.”
“I remember Pierce saying hostages were a waste of time,” Kade said. “I don’t think I mentioned that in my debrief.”
“We’re assuming they have the worst intentions,” Lockwood said. “If we can get Owens on the phone, what could make him call off the attack?”
“There’s not much,” Norcross said. “He’s dying—it’s his last hurrah.”
“He had a son die in Afghanistan,” Singleton said. “Mortally wounded from an IED, and they couldn’t medevac him fast enough. Maybe we lie and say we have additional information he’d want to know.”
Kade looked at Singleton, surprised and disappointed she hadn’t shared that information before, but Kade told himself to get over it. That’s how intel sometimes worked.
“That’s a creative angle,” he said. “You know, Marshall asked me about Afghanistan, and I didn’t have any idea why. But it’s probably too late for him to call this thing off.”
“Can we jam communications from Pierce?” Badesha asked. “Cut off any orders?”
“There’re still trying to get a fix on his position,” Lockwood said.
“I think the attack is on autopilot now,” Kade said.
A wall phone rang in the room, which Belmont answered.
“Okay, we’ll all come down,” he said, then hung up and turned toward the team. “Agent Morris wants us all down in the War Room, Flash included. The director is verbally granting everyone in this group temporary access.” Belmont stepped over to the speakerphone. “Sean, it looks like we’ll add a line for you down in the War Room, but we’re shutting down here.”
“Okay,” Lockwood said. “Talk to you again in a little bit.”
At that moment, there was a light knock at the door as everyone at the table started to talk among themselves and gather their belongings. Belmont stepped over to the door and opened it.
The man standing there scanned the inside of the room and stopped when he saw the person he was looking for. He then leaned in and spoke to Belmont.
“I have a note from the duty officer—a message from a Janeen Sims for Kade Sims? Some new contact information for her.”
Belmont looked puzzled, but Kade overheard and turned around.
“Yeah . . . that must be for me, thanks.” Kade stood up and came over. “So much for confidentiality,” he mumbled to himself.
He took the folded message out of Belmont’s hand and got a glimpse of the man’s face in the door as he turned and left. He wasn’t sure if he imagined it, but for a split second, he saw a name flash in his vision. It was so quick he couldn’t make it out, and Kade thought it was his exhausted mind playing tricks with him.
He looked at the paper form and the word PHONE was circled with the number 84379513 handwritten below it. He thought there had to be a mistake since Janeen’s number had a 351 prefix, but when he read the number anyway, the digits
seemed like they leapt off the paper at him, enlarged somewhere in his consciousness to an enormous font size, and he instantly felt as if he had the worst case of flu in history.
He became dizzy and collapsed on the floor, his muscles weak and stomach nauseous. His head pounded and even the feeling of his shirt against his skin was painful.
“Flash, are you okay?” Singleton said. Her voice sounded warbly and he saw her face and Belmont’s in the edge of what was becoming tunnel vision.
“No, I’m not.” He started to shake with chills and his teeth began to chatter.
Belmont and Badesha stretched him out flat on the floor. Singleton’s cool hand touched his forehead. Other people were speaking, but it was as if he could only hear and see right in front of his face.
“You feel hot,” she said.
“I’ll call an ambulance,” Belmont said.
Kade rolled sideways and threw up water and pepperoni pizza. He wasn’t sure what happened for the next five minutes, but he saw Morris’s distorted face peering over him.
“Hang in there, Flash. You’ll be okay,” Morris said.
“I know. If I wasn’t, I’m sure I’d be dead already.”
“Who brought this?” Morris said to the room while holding the message.
“I don’t know who it was,” Belmont said.
“I think it was Zach Poole,” Singleton said. She wiped Kade’s eyes and mouth with a wet towel.
Morris looked at Belmont. “Call the duty officer. See if we can stop everyone from leaving the building.” He leaned over Kade. “Flash, when I talked to Constantino, he received a message before having a stroke.” Morris pulled out a business card with the number written on the back. “Can you see this?”
Kade tried to not think about the number still burning in his mind. He looked at the new number Morris had. He didn’t read the number, just counted eight digits.
“Yeah, I see it. You should have told me about that earlier.”
“Why, do you know the number?”
He coughed, forced himself to sit up, and then took a few deep breaths to make sure he wasn’t going to vomit again. He thought about Carol Ries and glanced over at the picture Belmont still had up on the screen.
“No, but that doesn’t matter. Forget the ambulance and get me to the War Room.”
CHAPTER 68
Sunday, June 30
2:36 a.m. (EDT)
Walpole, Massachusetts
The D8 Crew bus idled at the front gate of Camp Walpole, with the Crew One and Crew Two Zulus respectively filling the twenty seats on the left and right sides of the aisle. Between their legs, resting on the seat, were AR-15 semiautomatic rifles with the muzzles pointed upward. On their hips were stun guns fixed to their belts.
Sentry Wolf sat in the driver’s seat and Sentry Robertson stood behind the front right seat next to the door with the intercom microphone in his hand. They each carried a Sig Sauer P226 pistol with eight extra clips slid into pouches on their custom belts.
“Listen up,” Sentry Robertson announced to the crews on the D8 bus. “We’ve got two minutes until we roll out of Walpole. Twenty minutes to reach the house in North Hills, one minute for offload, and ten minutes to get our business done. Roger?”
“Roger!” everyone repeated.
“Remember, you have sixty rounds total once you leave the bus. But we’re going to try to use the stun guns inside the house first, roger?”
“Roger!”
“We’ll do our best to not harm family members. We’ve reviewed the photos. We separate their twelve-year-old son, Colin; eight-year-old son, Matthew; and six-year-old daughter, Lily, to the southwest side of the home to one of the three bedrooms. Loren Seale remains near the front of the home in the dining room. We bring Congressman Seale out the garage exit and to the gate. If he can’t open it for us, then we have Mrs. Seale do it at gunpoint. You have the plan’s checklist on your home screens. Listen to the commands from Wolf and me, roger?”
“Roger!”
Behind the bus, in the idling black SUV, Sentry Severa flashed the brights and the front gate of the facility began to open. Severa looked in his rearview mirror and saw the D4 Crew bus ready to follow them out of the gate to go on their own route.
“Okay, it’s time, gentlemen!” Robertson said. “You’re about an hour away from the end of your contract and the beginning of your freedom. Let’s get it done!”
CHAPTER 69
Sunday, June 30
2:38 a.m. (EDT)
White House Situation Room
The national security team had been summoned, but other than Directors Conroy and Hassett, only General (retired) Reid McAlister, the national security advisor; Fredrick Bivens, the assistant to the president for homeland security and counterterrorism; and General Trent Ridder, vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, had arrived and were seated at the conference table.
The five men were transfixed by updates from their notebook computers, phones, and live video displayed on wall-mounted monitors. Two aides assisted with the room technology. President Greer joined the group, sitting at his preferred chair in the center of the table.
“Do we know the when and how of this attack yet?” Greer asked.
“Yes, sir,” Bivens said. “The attack’s already underway. Up on the screen here, as I advance through some of the pictures and the live video streaming from a handful of these CEC prisons, you can see that buses are leaving or waiting to leave the facilities.”
Greer looked back and forth between the pictures and video. “School buses?”
“Yes, sir,” Bivens said. “It looks like they’ve painted their prison buses to look like school buses.”
“Bastards,” Greer said. The screen flashed between surveillance video photos of buses departing, grainy pictures of soldiers armed with semiautomatic rifles loading buses, and prisoners getting dressed in uniforms—those time stamped at just after eleven o’clock Eastern time.
An aide set down a mug of coffee in front of Greer and he pushed it aside.
“What are we doing to stop this?” he said.
“We’ve sent NTAS alerts to all subscribers,” Bivens said, “contacted all of the governors, and alerted every FBI office. The FBI is sending alerts out to every state and local law enforcement organization they have emergency procedures established with. We’ve also notified Congress, alerting them of an imminent threat and directing them to seek refuge in a place of safety.”
“Only problem is it’s the middle of the night,” Greer said. “And they may feel safest in their homes.”
“Every available intelligence resource and asset is tasked on this,” Conroy said.
“We’re targeting the Chapter’s command and control,” Hassett said, “and believe we’ll have a target in minutes. But engaging the target this rapidly leaves us with only a few options.”
“And what are they?” Greer asked.
General Ridder said, “Sir, we can’t scramble aircraft or launch drones fast enough to engage the target once we acquire it. The only way we can hit it immediately is with a Block Four Tomahawk fired from one of our subs in the Puget Sound. We alerted the USS Michigan and they are ready. It would be thirteen minutes from launch to target impact in the Portland area. But we’d need to launch now, before we have the target acquired.”
“A Tomahawk fired into greater Portland?” Greer said, thinking of the horrible consequences of this “option.”
“Yes, sir,” Ridder said. “Assuming the target is correct, it will be dead accurate. Even if the target moves, we can still hit it.”
“And what if it’s not the right target?” Greer asked. “Or it’s near people?”
“We can retask the missile in flight to splash in the Pacific,” Ridder said.
Greer looked at the large digital wall clock. Ten seconds elapsed while he watched it and the time changed to 2:41 a.m. Eastern. He looked back at Ridder.
“Fire the Tomahawk.”
“Yes, sir.” Ri
dder moved to the other side of the room to talk on a different communications line.
“But this doesn’t stop the militia force on the move right now,” Greer said. “What else can we do about that?”
“There are too many potential targets,” Conroy said, “and we can’t get a fix on them fast enough. We can only send the alerts.”
Hassett had been on the phone and his voice suddenly grew louder and more animated with information he’d just received.
“Mr. President, we may have another way to hinder the attack, but we’ll need you to authorize it.”
“Okay, let’s hear it.”
CHAPTER 70
Saturday, June 29
11:47 p.m. (PDT)
FBI field office, Portland, Oregon
The field office leadership, CLEARCUT team members, and new additions were now crammed into the War Room, except for Jerry Lerner, who was no longer permitted to dial in on an unsecured line.
The room was hot, and Kade took sips of cold water to take his mind off his discomfort. The number 84379513 had faded to a watermark in his mind and he tried to forget it.
Agent Lockwood from SOIC-5 came on the line. “The EOC for GETS is now asking us for clarification on what we need. Go ahead, EOC,” he said.
The Government Emergency Telecommunications Service (GETS) was a network set up to bypass regular traffic in the case of national emergencies, and the Emergency Operations Center (EOC) was a group of technicians from all major phone carriers in partnership with the National Security Agency that could be called on 24/7 in a national emergency to serve on order of the president.
President Greer had just ordered it activated.
“Okay, Joshua Pierce’s phone has an active signal and is stationary,” the female EOC technician said. “You are requesting additional information from the phone?”
“Yes,” Kade said. “First, we need the contact lists.”
“Okay,” EOC said.
On the videoconferencing monitor, the EOC technician’s shared computer view let the team in the War Room see her clicking through various screens. The system seemed sluggish.