DESIGNATED
SURVIVOR
Also by John H. Matthews
The South Coast
Ballyvaughan
Red Grace: A Grace Short Story
John H. Matthews
DESIGNATED SURVIVOR
Bluebullseye Press
Copyright © John H. Matthews, 2016
Designated Survivor
Written by John H. Matthews
Copyright © 2016 by John H. Matthews
ISBN: 978-0-9897233-6-7
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Bluebullseye Press
www.bluebullseyepress.com
A division of Bluebullseye LLC
Edited by Ginger Moran
Cover design Copyright © 2016 John H. Matthews
For Brennan,
I tried to write the kid’s book you asked for
but things kept blowing up.
CHAPTER 1
The weapons and gear were heavy, but Jared Long was used to it. He’d been a Marine for six years before being accepted into the Secret Service uniformed division, then another two before joining the tactical team. His training had been hard and long and brought him to this point in his life, standing in the lobby of the United States Capitol building with an FN P90 compact assault rifle loaded in his hands, a Sig Sauer P229 on his side, and extra ammunition for both.
On either side of him lined up at fifteen foot intervals through the hallway were a dozen other members of his team, all armed and ready. Jared kept looking at his watch and each time tried to stop, to not draw attention to himself. He still wasn’t sure he could go through with it, in case what the man on the phone had said was a lie. But he also didn’t know if he could take the chance it was true.
A bead of sweat worked down his brow, coming from under his helmet, across his forehead and into his right eye. The words would come soon and he’d have to decide what to do, if he could do it. He wasn’t even sure he was capable of it. He hadn’t been home since before sunrise that morning when he left to prepare for tonight’s assignment, when he left quietly his wife was sleeping in bed, their daughter in her crib inches away.
The doors began to close along the hallway, locking the chamber behind them. It was going to come soon. He had to choose. Was the threat against his family real? The calls had started weeks ago, getting worse each time until the vile words spoken today.
The cheap white speakers were spaced out throughout the hall, clumsily mounted to the old stone columns and defying the architecture. They began to transmit the proceedings happening in the large closed room behind him. Jared’s stomach tightened. He moved his right hand to check the safety on the automatic weapon he was holding and glanced to both sides to see his team members.
Each word that came through the speakers made him jump for fear it was the signal he was waiting for. He wondered if he was the only one or if others had received similar calls, the same abrupt and vulgar threats. Capitol Police lined the outside of the building and inside there were enough Secret Service officers to stop anything, he thought.
He’d tried calling home three times in the short gap between the last phone call he’d received to his unlisted and secure work cell phone and when they were entering the Capitol building. She hadn’t answered, but in normal situations it wouldn’t have been a cause for concern. She might have taken the baby out to do some grocery shopping, or had simply turned the ringer off so they could both nap.
The applause coming through the wall behind him began to fade as the sound from the speakers grew and he knew it was time. He thought of his wife and their beautiful little girl, Lila. The baby would be asleep by now but Sarah would be watching on television as she always did.
And then the gentle but assertive woman’s voice came. “Mr. Speaker, Mr. Vice President, members of Congress, my fellow Americans…”
Jared Long paused for only a moment and gripped the assault rifle tightly. He closed his eyes and spoke to himself.
“I’m sorry, Sarah.”
He raised his rifle as he turned to his left. He began firing in short, three round bursts as his training as a Marine and a Secret Service tactical officer had taught him. He knew to aim at a target further away first, that it would distract those closer to him as they turned to identify the threat he was firing his weapon towards. The first cluster of bullets hit Officer Timothy Strong thirty feet away and the man’s body fell to the ground. Just to his left, Sergeant Bobby Martinez stood frozen. Unsure of what to do as he looked at the body on the ground then back at Jared, he began to raise his rifle. Jared took aim and squeezed his trigger for a second burst of bullets that struck the man in his head and chest and he watched Martinez fall to the ground. It had only been seconds since he’d first pulled his trigger. He heard more gunfire behind him and turned to engage.
Some officers weren’t even raising their weapons, confused why one of their own was firing on them. Others reacted more quickly and returned fire in self-defense. It took only moments and nobody knew who had begun the fight or who was on which side. Yells for cease-fire were heard throughout the hallway and through the earpieces they each wore.
He stepped back to the wall and let himself slide down to the floor until he was sitting, his rifle still in front of him. He’d killed four men in a matter of seconds and nobody was left standing. The magazine in his rifle was empty and when he tried to reach back with his right hand to grab a new one his arm didn’t respond. Though there was no pain he was sure he’d been shot in the shoulder. There was little movement in the room as most of the officers were dead or seriously injured. Protocol had the doors to the House chamber locked from inside and the exterior doors were secured by Capitol Police protecting the perimeter for the State of the Union address.
The speakers were overloaded with the sounds of the commotion inside the chamber, reacting to the barrage of gunfire outside its doors. By now the President should have been pulled down from her podium and moved to a secure location, if there was such a thing at this point. He knew from the extent of the firefight that others must have been forced into killing, that he hadn’t been the only one.
Glass shattered and more gunfire erupted from down the stairs and hallway to the outside. Moments later three armored Capitol Police rushed in and spread out through the hall. A sense of relief rushed over Jared Long. He’d done what he was told to do and he’d survived. He watched the first policemen use their feet to kick the downed Secret Service officers to see if they were alive. With one kick came a grunt, a moment of silence, and a single shot from the Capitol Police officer’s rifle.
Jared sat there, realizing survival wasn’t to be and his time was limited, but hoping he would be missed, as he watched the methodical extermination of any survivors in front of him. He held still and closed his eyes. Even if he could have moved his arm and put his fingers around the grip of his Sig Sauer pistol, he didn’t know if he had the energy to pull it and fire.
“Over there,” he heard.
An officer in full gear, his face covered with the black balaclava used for secretive missions walked up to him and he tried to hold still and hoped he could avoid reacting when pushed or kicked to see if he was alive.
Something struck him in the side of the head, a blunt object against his helmet, and his reflexes defied him and kept him from falling over, his head returning back to an upright position.
A single bullet enter
ed his forehead and everything was gone.
CHAPTER 2
Grace’s face was pressed into the dirty carpet of his one bedroom apartment in Arlington, Virginia. The empty bottle of Tito’s vodka was still clutched in his right hand, his left arm trapped underneath his own body. The cellphone began to vibrate and ring in his jeans pocket. On the tenth ring he let go of the bottle and gradually pulled the phone out and swiped his finger across the glass surface to answer.
“Huh,” was all he could get out.
“It’s Arrington. Are you there? Grace?”
“Uhh Hhhuhh.”
“Grace, we need you,” Arrington said. “Have you been watching the news?”
“Unh uhh.”
“Shit. Sober up. I’m coming to get you,” Arrington said. “We need to get to Herndon.”
“Nhuu,” Grace pressed the button to hang up and passed out.
His phone began to ring again then someone was banging on the door to his apartment. He rolled himself onto his back and everything inside his head kept moving even though his body was still. Something large smashed against his door and it swung open, slamming against the wall.
“Shit,” he tried to sit up. “That was loud.”
“Dammit, have you even moved since I called ten minutes ago?” Arrington said.
“What?” Grace said. “Ten minutes?”
Four men were with Derek Arrington, wearing dark suits and tiny receivers in their ears with clear curly cords running down into the perfectly starched white collars of their shirts.
“Okay, guys, stand him up,” Arrington said.
The men struggled to hoist Grace’s body to a vertical position. His slight build was deceiving as to how much muscle mass he actually had. As they lifted, he adjusted his weight to slip to his left. As his 190 pounds began to fall, one of the agents moved to catch him. Grace’s right hand slid up under the man’s jacket and pulled the agent’s weapon out of its holster.
Just as the agent realized what was happening, Grace stood and spun around behind with his left arm tight on the agent’s neck and raised the Sig Sauer .45 caliber pistol at the other three men.
“What the hell is going on here,” he said.
“Jesus Christ, Grace,” Arrington said. “Quit fucking around and give the man back his gun. We have a situation.”
The black Chevrolet Yukon’s windows were blacked out to keep anyone from seeing inside the customized and heavily armored vehicle that carried the director of the National Security Agency. Grace sat in the middle of the back seat facing his boss, the back of the SUV fitted out like a limousine rather than a standard Yukon’s. At Arrington’s order he’d taken a quick shower after the director got too close to him and smelled the two days and nights of drinking Grace had been through with his team after the successful mission.
He’d put on clean khakis and a striped dress shirt with the tails out and the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows. His exposed forearms displayed the tattoos that began at his wrists and disappeared beneath the shirtsleeve, the face of his oversized silver Breitling watch striking a strong contrast against the inked skin. His hair was still wet from the shower but didn’t look much different than when it was dry, light brown and almost to his shoulders, flowing down around his head. A hint of silver was coming in on his temples. On operations he would pull it into a tight, high ponytail.
“So why am I not unconscious on my floor right now?” Grace said. “I just got back from the Soviet Union two days ago.” The mission had taken his team eighteen hours to carry out after four weeks of planning and training at a compound in South Carolina.
“It’s not the Soviet Union anymore and you know that,” Arrington said.
“You been there lately? They sure as hell act like it is,” Grace said.
“Watch this,” Arrington sat facing him.
A television screen was mounted on the wall behind Arrington that separated them from the driver’s seat. The two men watched the live coverage from CNN through a satellite feed to the vehicle. No media helicopters were being allowed in the air in D.C., so all of the views were zoomed in from any vantage point the reporters could find from blocks away. Blurry shots of the United States Capitol Building filled the screen as the reporters kept repeating the few things they thought to be true or had guessed about the situation.
“What the hell?” Grace said.
“State of the Union,” Arrington said. “Gunfire began just after President Abrams began speaking.”
“I didn’t vote for her,” Grace said.
“I know,” Arrington’s charcoal grey pinstripe suit jacket was hung on a chrome hanger attached to the dividing wall, his white dress shirt still crisp from the dry cleaners, as it always was. His light brown skin never showed signs of being shaved and no stubble was ever visible on the man’s chin or the top of his head.
“How do you know that?” Grace said.
“Because we’re the NSA. The last time you voted was for Ross Perot when you were eighteen years old because your father hated him.”
“Shit,” Grace said. “You guys are good.”
“Yes, we are,” Arrington said. “Capitol police began to enter the building after the initial gunfire stopped, but then the emergency barricades were activated from inside, effectively locking everyone in.”
“We have anyone inside?” Grace said.
“A few radio transmissions have come through, usually followed by gunshots then lost signals,” Arrington said. “We believe all of our people are being systematically eliminated, if they haven’t been already. There’s no cellphone activity so we think there’s multiple jammers in place.”
“So someone has the president, vice president and all of Congress held hostage inside the United States Capitol?” Grace said.
“That’s the short answer, yes,” Arrington said. “Don’t forget about all of the Supreme Court justices and cabinet members and the hundred distinguished guests in the gallery.”
“So, who’s running the country?” Grace said.
“Precautions are taken during the State of the Union,” Arrington said.
“You mean the designated survivor?” Grace said. “Whatever low level cabinet member drew the short straw and is eating a five-star dinner in a bunker somewhere? That’s the leader of the free world right now?”
“Yeah,” Arrington said. “Aren’t we lucky.”
“Who has the football?” Grace asked about the black suitcase that travels with the president that contains the launch codes for the Nation’s nuclear missiles.
“The president has it inside the Capitol,” Arrington said. “The designated survivor has a backup. The pentagon can delete all active launch codes and replace them with new ones as soon as we tell them to.”
“And you haven’t yet? We think that’s the target? Is someone trying to get our nukes?” Grace said.
“It’s our primary assumption. Changing the codes brings the system offline for an hour and we can’t be left with our pants down right now in case that’s what they want. Russia alone has 1600 warheads pointed at us. 60 minutes gives them time to land quite a few of those,” Arrington said. “If we knew who the hell was behind this it would help us narrow down their end game.”
“How does something like this happen?” Grace said. “There are hundreds of agents and officers from half a dozen agencies protecting that building.”
The SUV turned sharply then slowed as it approached the gates to the newly constructed building in Herndon, Virginia. The gate opened without the car stopping and they sped through the dark parking lot to the front of the building.
“We’re trying to figure that out,” Arrington said. “And we should find out more soon. Early reports are that it was friendly fire.”
“Seriously?” Grace said. “Our men just started shooting at each other inside the Capitol?”
“Again, it’s early reports,” Arrington said. “We’ll get an update as soon as we get inside.”
Grace l
ooked out the window. “Why aren’t we going to Beltsville?” Grace said. Beltsville, Maryland is home to the Special Collection Service, a highly classified joint operation between the NSA and the Central Intelligence Agency. Their primary mission is to infiltrate and insert eavesdropping equipment in foreign territories, though specialized teams such as Grace’s were often used for more proactive missions.
“This fits our immediate needs better,” Arrington said. “We’re flying by the seat of our pants to get a leadership team together. The secretary of Defense, the FBI director and the Attorney General are all in the Capitol. There’s no guidebook for this.”
“Whose building is this?”
The generic building stood out from others in the area only by the row of large boulders that were placed around the perimeter of the compound, outside the fourteen-foot tall fences with razor wire stretched along the top. The boulders became standard at all new and updated federal buildings housing intelligence agencies in the wake of the bombing at Oklahoma City, after a homemade fertilizer bomb in a rented U-Haul parked on the street beside the Murrah Federal Building and detonated.
“Homeland Security,” Arrington said.
“Homeland Security?” Grace said. “Shit. They’re like the neighbors who just moved in and start complaining about your grass being too tall before the moving truck even leaves.”
“Trust me, I don’t like it. The NSA isn’t used to playing nice with anyone, I’ll be the first to admit that. Hell, just sharing your team with the CIA annoys the hell out of me,” Arrington said. “But right now we need all the help we can get. I haven’t been here yet, but from what I hear they have everything we need right now to try to get ahead of this thing.”
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