He closed the news and opened his email. There were a dozen ordinary messages, and then one with the subject line Dear Mr. Bridgeport from an address he didn't recognize. He considered sending it to the spam filter, thought better of it, clicked.
You don't know me from Adam, the email read, but you knew my grandfather, Bill Stedman, and he told me once that he thought you were an honest man. That's why I'm sending you a link to some papers that came from a hacked White House computer; it's gone to some other people as well. If you look about halfway down the list of names in the document labeled ExAcList you'll know why. Sincerely, Daniel Stedman.
Bridgeport read the email a second time, his chin cupped in his hand. Of course it could be a clever new way to get spam or spyware past his computer's filters, or some subtler trap, but his gut feeling said otherwise. He compromised, clicked on the last email in his inbox, which was from Joe Egmont and had no subject line.
The message was stark: Pierre—call me. J.
Bridgeport leaned forward. The use of his real name was a private signal between them, and meant serious trouble. He paused and frowned, then reopened the email from Daniel Stedman and clicked the link. A privacy-screened browser window opened, and showed him a directory of documents. He clicked on the one labeled ExAcList. It read:
Subjects for immediate executive action on enactment of Presidential Order 18827.
Below that was a list of names, and Pierre Bridgeport was about halfway down it.
Bridgeport reached for the phone to call Joe Egmont, then thought better of it; the phones at the vice presidential mansion were monitored, that was a safe bet, and it was at least as certain that Gurney's people had immediate access to the intercepts. Instead, he opened three of the other documents. One of them turned out to be the text of Presidential Order 18827, which declared martial law, suspended the Constitution, and gave Gurney unlimited power to rule by decree. The other two were orders to Pentagon officials sending the US military into America's streets with orders to shoot to kill in case of resistance.
That was enough. Bridgeport considered the possibility that the whole thing was a well-crafted fake, but it all made the most unpleasant kind of sense of the rumors that had been flying around Washington for weeks, and there was Egmont's email to weigh in the balance. One way or another, it was too plausible to dismiss, and that meant there might be very little time left for him to act—if there was any at all.
He scribbled the URL for the link to the stolen documents on a scrap of paper, deleted both emails, triggered the program that cleared and overwrote everything in his trash bin, then shut down the computer and left the room. The moment Gurney's people knew about the leak, all hell was going to break loose, and when that happened, there was precisely one place on the planet where he would be safe.
Maybe.
The clock in his bedroom said 4:11 am: late enough, he decided. He dressed quickly, got his briefcase, threw a coat over his shoulder, and made himself slow down as he went to the elevator and hit the button for the basement level. The Eisenhower-era private subway that linked government buildings in the core of the city had been extended out to the vice president's residence back in 2002, at the same time the deep underground bunkers there had gone in. That was his ordinary route to the Capitol, and everything depended on Gurney's people not realizing that anything was out of the ordinary.
The Secret Service guard at the subway station looked up from a half-finished crossword puzzle as the elevator opened and Bridgeport came out. “Morning, Mr. Bridgeport,” he said.
“Morning, Jim,” Bridgeport said. With a shrug: “I couldn't sleep, and figured I might as well head in and get some work done before the shouting starts up again.”
The guard chuckled. “I bet. Have a good day, sir.”
“Thank you. You too.”
Bridgeport got into the subway car, punched in the code for the Capitol and took a seat. Back when it was first put in, the government subway system still had drivers and conductors. He missed that bit of human contact—especially now.
Especially when his route took him right under the White House, and it would be child's play for Gurney's people to stop the car, have him dragged out by hired goons, and treated the way they'd treated Bill Stedman.
He drew in a ragged breath as the car started moving, and hoped he'd still be alive when it got to the Capitol.
13 October 2030: The Capitol, Washington DC
“Mr. Bridgeport!” The night watchman at the subway station in the Capitol basement gave him a startled look. “Mighty early, sir.”
“I know. Too much to get done. Thanks, Fred.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the watchman, pocketing the tip.
Bridgeport's footfalls whispered off the stone walls as he went through the silent building to his office. Security guards looked surprised, but then greeted him with a friendly “Good morning, Mr. Bridgeport, sir.” He returned the greetings, got to his office, and unlocked the door, more than half expecting to find someone waiting for him inside with a silenced gun.
The office was empty. He turned on the lights, locked the door behind him, went to his desk and picked up the phone. That line was probably monitored, too, but at this point it was almost too late in the game to matter.
The first call went to Joe Egmont. “Joe? It's Pete.”
“Thank God. Have you seen—”
“The list? Yes. I'm in my office.”
“I'll be there in a few minutes.”
“I'll let the security people know. Joe, I'm going to call the Pentagon next.”
“Do that,” said Egmont. “I've been on the phone with my contacts there. Waite's expecting your call.”
Bridgeport blinked. “Your idea?”
“Seemed like the right thing to do.”
“Thank you. See you in a bit.”
Bridgeport closed the line, dialed the security desk and told them about Egmont, then called Waite's office at the Pentagon. “This is Vice President Bridgeport. I was told that Admiral Waite's there.”
“Yes, sir,” said the voice on the other end. “I'll put you right through, sir.”
A click, and then a familiar voice: “This is Admiral Waite.”
“Pete Bridgeport. I don't know of an easy way to say what I have to say.”
“I do,” said the admiral. “You've seen the leak of Presidential Order 18827 and the other documents that go with it, and you want to know if they're authentic.”
“Basically.”
“Yes,” said Waite at once. “Some of them have already been sent to us here and to NORTHCOM.”
Bridgeport paused, taking that in, then said, “I need to know where you stand, Roland.”
It was the admiral's turn to be silent. “I don't want to see this country torn apart,” he said. “I want to see the Union saved—but not this way. Not at the cost of everything the United States used to stand for. And there's another detail, of course. Did you read the whole list of people Gurney wants taken out?”
“No,” Bridgeport admitted. “I probably should have.”
“My name was on it,” said Waite. “So was Ralph Wittkower's, and half a dozen other people at the top end of the military. They're planning a clean sweep.”
Bridgeport took that in. “What I need to know now is whether you'll back me.”
“What are you planning?”
“Congress is going to do what the Constitution says we're supposed to do. I need you to make sure nobody stops us.”
“We can do that,” Waite said at once. “What exactly do you need?”
“Enough troops in and around the Capitol to keep Gurney from trying anything stupid.”
“You'll have it. I can offer you something else.”
“Go ahead,” said Bridgeport.
“I'm prepared to resign as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and testify before Congress.”
Bridgeport's mouth fell open; it took him a moment to recover. “Thank you, Roland.”
“W
e were debating what to do,” said Waite. “You've just given us the best available answer. I'll be there at 8 am sharp.”
Bridgeport thanked him again and set down the phone, then drew in a deep breath, picked up the phone again, and started dialing senators.
13 October 2030: The White House, Washington DC
Ellen Harbin arrived at the West Wing at 8:30, after fielding a panicked phone call from one of her aides. “What's happened?” she demanded as she came into the National Security Council office.
“The president wants to see you,” said one of her senior analysts. “Right away.”
She took that in, nodded, turned, went straight to the Oval Office past knots of tense and whispering staff, and knocked on the door.
Silence.
She knocked again, and when there was no answer, opened the door and went in. She found Gurney staring at a flat screen with a face the color of putty and the expression of a man who had just been strangled.
“Lon?” Harbin asked. “What is it?”
Gurney kept staring at the screen and said nothing. Harbin came around to see for herself. A TV newscast showed Admiral Waite in uniform in one of the Capitol briefing rooms. ADMIRAL: GURNEY PLANS MILITARY COUP was splashed across the bottom of the picture. “—a terrible idea,” Waite was saying, his face bland. The words at the bottom of the picture shifted: RESIGNS AS CHAIRMAN OF JOINT CHIEFS. “But if this is how the American people decide they're going to exercise their constitutional rights, the military's job is to salute and say, ‘Yes, sir; yes, ma'am.’”
Harbin stared at the newscast for a long moment, and then swallowed. “Lon,” she said, “we can cope with this. Get on the line to Wittkower and tell him to do his job.”
He looked up at her then, and though he still said nothing his face was bleak and pleading. “Okay,” she said. “I'll call him. If he wants to hear it from you, you'll have to back me.” She turned and left the Oval Office before he could respond.
Back in her own office, she all but threw herself into her chair, picked up the phone and dialed. “This is Ellen Harbin,” she said when a receptionist picked up the other end. “I need to speak to General Wittkower at once.”
“I'm sorry, ma'am,” the receptionist said. “The general's not available.”
“That wasn't merely a request,” Harbin snapped. “Put me through to him.”
“I'm sorry, ma'am,” the receptionist repeated. “The general's not available.”
“That's not good enough,” said Harbin.
“I'll see to it that your disapproval is reported to the proper authorities, ma'am,” the receptionist told her. The boredom in his voice was so evident that she disconnected the call with a jab of one finger.
Three calls to three other top Pentagon brass got her no further, and she slammed down the phone and went back to the Oval Office, entering unannounced. “Lon,” she said, “the Pentagon is stonewalling me. You've got to call Wittkower and talk some sense into him.”
It took her twenty minutes of pleading and bullying to get Gurney out of his funk and on the phone, and she stood there listening while he made the call. “This is President Gurney. I need to talk to General Wittkower at once.” A silence. “Dammit, this is an emergency. Get him on the line.” Another silence. “I don't care. Get him on the line!” Another. “What do you mean, ‘No, sir’? I'm the goddamn president. Get him on the fucking line.” Still another silence, and then Gurney lowered the handset and stared at it. “He wouldn't put me through.”
“You'll have to try someone else,” Harbin said.
“Ellen—” He looked up at her. “The news is saying that there are Marines surrounding the Capitol.”
It was the first good news she'd had all day. “Good. Somebody's come to their—”
“No. Ellen, listen. They're protecting Congress.” He swallowed visibly. “From me.”
She stared at him for a long moment, then said, “We'll find a way around that. You stay right here. I'll get Homeland Security on this.”
He nodded vaguely, and Harbin hurried out of the room.
13 October 2030: The Capitol, Washington DC
“Any word from the White House yet?” Bridgeport asked.
“Nothing directly,” Wittkower said. He was in BDUs, looking every inch the field commander he'd been in the Venezuelan war. “Gurney's people are talking with Homeland Security—we've intercepted transmissions, and I've got people working on decrypting them. They've got the White House pretty well guarded, but we can take ’em if we have to.”
“I hope you won't have to,” Bridgeport replied.
They were in his office in the Capitol. Outside, Marines in full battle gear guarded the Capitol grounds, and the sound of helicopters overhead could be heard all through the Capitol like a distant drumbeat.
Wittkower nodded. “I wish the House would hurry up.”
“They're working as fast as they can. This has got to be done the right—”
The intercom buzzed, and Bridgeport poked the button. “Yes?”
“On the floor,” Joe Egmont's voice said. “Four hundred thirty-eight in favor. I've got the articles. Kamanoff and Schick just appointed the committee.”
“Good,” Bridgeport replied. “I'll be over in a minute.” He poked the button again and glanced up at the general, who was giving him a quizzical look. “The House just voted to bring the articles of impeachment to the floor, with a big majority in favor. It's all over now but the shouting—well, on their side.” He got out of his chair. “It's the Senate's turn now. Keep us safe for another couple of hours, and we'll finish this.”
“I can do that,” said Wittkower. “The Marines can hold off anything they can throw at us until the 82nd gets here, and then it's all over. Keep me posted.”
“Of course.” The two men went to the door.
The hall outside the vice presidential office was full of senators and staff. Wittkower hurried through them to the elevators—his command post was in the basement levels—and Bridgeport watched him go, then turned toward the Senate chamber.
“Pete!” Mike Kamanoff, the Senate majority leader, saw him and hurried over. “You've heard about the House.”
“On the floor.”
“It's a slam-dunk at this point. I wish we had some other choice.”
“So do I. Where's Phil Schick?”
“Last I saw—”
The sound of hurrying feet hushed the talk in the hall, and both men turned. A staffer came up the stairs at a run. “Impeached,” he said, panting. “Vote just passed the halfway point.”
“Well,” said Bridgeport. “Ladies and gentlemen, I believe we have a job to do.” He started walking toward the Senate chambers. One after another, the senators in the hallway broke away from conversations and followed him.
13 October 2030: The White House, Washington DC
“Ignore it,” Harbin snapped. “Lon's still in charge.”
“The Constitution gives them—” the aide began.
“The Constitution is a scrap of paper 250 years out of date. Lon's still in charge. If you want to argue, there's the door.”
The aide gave her a dubious look, but subsided.
“I'll be back in ten minutes,” Harbin said then. “I'll expect a list of the military and Homeland Security assets we've got close enough to DC to get here first thing tomorrow or sooner. This nonsense has gone far enough.” She turned and left the National Security Council rooms; the aide watched her go.
She'd expected Lon to be in the Oval Office, but the room was empty. She waited, one hand on the brown wood of the famous desk. Get through this, she told herself. Get through this crisis, bring things back under control, use the excuse to take care of Bridgeport and the other people in Congress who needs to be removed, and then there's just one more obstacle in the way.
Just one more heartbeat, and she'd have the biggest prize of all.
Five minutes later, when Gurney hadn't returned, she let out an annoyed sigh, sat down at the de
sk and woke his computer. She'd sent the orders for Homeland Security to his mailbox, having gotten the password from him months earlier; a few clicks of the mouse and she had them on his desktop, added the presidential signature, then sent them on their way.
There, she thought. That should take care of it. She got up, left the room, flagged down a member of the White House staff, told her to find Gurney for her, and then hurried back to the National Security Council offices.
The aide she'd assigned to make the list was nowhere to be seen. She blinked, startled, and walked over to his work station. There was a note:
On second thought the door sounds like the better option. I've cleaned out my desk and cleared my files from the computer. Happy trails.
Harbin grabbed the note, crumpled it, flung it into the nearest wastebasket, and went to a phone to get someone up from the Executive Office Building in a hurry.
13 October 2030: Homeland Security headquarters, Bethesda, Maryland
“Sir.” The colonel in black Homeland Security BDUs saluted. “We just got word from Andrews.”
Blair Murdoch glanced up from the computer screen. “And?”
“It's the 82nd Airborne. They've secured the airfield, and more transports are coming in.”
“Whose side are they on?”
“Nobody knows yet, sir. I've got our people working on communications intercepts.”
Murdoch hauled himself out of his chair. Crunch time, he said to himself. Aloud: “Good. Any trouble with our people in Camp Springs?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Tell ’em to sit tight. No shooting unless they're fired on.”
“Yes, sir.” The colonel waited a moment, then saluted again and hurried out of the room.
Murdoch paced over to the big plate glass window that made one wall of his office. The Capitol and the White House were less than ten miles away; he couldn't see either one, but the helicopters hovering around the Capitol were visible, small as gnats in the distance.
Damn it, anyway, he thought. How the hell did we end up in this kind of mess?
He went back to his desk and gave the computer screen a morose look. The orders checked out as authentic, straight from the National Security Council, and they were over Gurney's signature, though he had a pretty fair idea who had actually written them. There were only two problems with them: the first was that Gurney wasn't technically the president any more, and the second was that they ordered him to throw everything Homeland Security had in the DC area into a frontal assault on the soldiers guarding the Capitol the following morning—an assault that would almost certainly plunge the country into civil war.
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