Brilliant New Light (Chance Lyon military adventure series Book 3)

by Van Torrey

  Still feeling their way, there was silence from the others present allowing Rachel Hunter to once again advance the discussion. “What we have here is two degrees of separation from finding the truth about motive,” she ventured.

  “I’m afraid so,” concluded Wheatley.

  The ensuing silence was deafening to Rachel, and she broke the ice for what she hoped was the last time in this situation. “Most of you don’t know me well, but I would like to set some ground rules here. I can’t do this job in a vacuum, and I’m not an egotist. I need thoughtful input, constructive advice, and, yes, even an informed challenge when I’m veering too far off course. Together we need to completely understand what happened in Beijing. If there are national security implications to these events, and we don’t know that at this point, we need to formulate policy to deal with any such challenges. In summary, I want to hear from you candidly. What is said in this room doesn’t go any further.” For the first time Rachel Hunter was starting to assert herself, albeit reluctantly, as President of the United States.

  The veteran, no-nonsense Secretary of State Alexander Randolph was first out of the gate, saying, cryptically, and somewhat formally, “You can count on my support President Hunter.” Then he continued by saying, “I learned long ago not to jump to conclusions in the diplomatic business, but given the historical situation in North Korea, and now with the recent leadership changes, topped off by this terrible attack, I would think this is tantamount to a declaration of war on their part. My God, this was downright barbaric!” he fumed.

  Most of the others had their say as well, more or less parroting what the Secretary of State had said. It was now time for Rachel Hunter to summarize and wrap this meeting up. There was much else to do, and the day was getting away from her.

  “Needless to say, everyone, the focus at the moment is giving Jonathan Braxton the respectful funeral he so richly deserves and then moving forward. Then we will move on to getting more facts and, if necessary, dealing with the North Koreans in an appropriate way. We still need a lot more information. I will be counting on Mr. Rollins and Ms. Mitchell to use all the resources at their disposal to get us some actionable intelligence on this situation,” she stated as she nodded in the direction of the Directors of National Intelligence and CIA seated at the conference table.

  “It goes without saying these arms reduction talks are over for the foreseeable future. We are, in my view, back even beyond the original square one. While it is in the strategic interests of everyone who participated in these talks that they succeed, any such possibility has been dashed by this reckless and heinous act of barbarism emanating from their camp. These talks are no longer an active topic in this administration. Unless there is anything else of the moment, we are adjourned.”

  *

  As Rachel lay in the unfamiliar bed in the nearly deserted, except for the double dose of Secret Service, White House yearning for sleep she vaguely remembered the rest of the day. There were attempts for an official portrait, apparently a high priority for State, an official signature to be used for routine documents that would be signed with some sort of robotic signature machine, meetings with Secret Service personnel going over routine security procedures, instructions from staff of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff about the nuclear code procedure that were eerie and left her with a great sense of uneasiness, and, finally, a meeting about the logistics of moving Rachel Hunter into the White House.

  The Secret Service made it very clear they preferred President Hunter to move immediately into the White House where she could be protected more conveniently. Such a transition, they said, would be substantially easier because both former President Braxton and she were both single people. When Rachel was informed Jonathan Braxton’s belongings were already being painstakingly inventoried and professionally packed for storage, supervised by Secret Service personnel and White House archivists, Rachel was momentarily rattled by their clinical efficiency. She was told his surviving family would be invited to a secure site away from the White House where they could take their time going through his personal belongings and deciding their disposition.

  Meanwhile, Rachel was asked to sign a document giving Secret Service personnel, led by a two female agents and the chief of her Vice-Presidential detail, the authority to supervise the immediate movement of her personal belongings from the Naval Observatory residence to the second floor residence of the White House.

  The White House curator, Mr. Maxwell Morton, who looked like an English butler right out of Hollywood central casting, allowed, “...the carpets and furniture are being cleaned as we speak, Madam President.” He had not yet gotten the word on addressing President Hunter and it was doubtful that he would comply with “Ms.”, given the formality of his training. He further stated he, “...would be looking forward to working with “Madam” when she could find a convenient time to consider redecorating the Presidential residence to her personal tastes and preferences.”

  Rachel Hunter thanked the curator courtesly, but assured him that was the last thing on her mind today.

  With these mundane matters out of the way, Rachel Hunter allowed herself a few moments alone and thought, If people who think the government is inefficient could see what is happening here today, they would change their minds.

  Well after six o’clock Hunter’s temporary Presidential Chief of Staff, Ms. Bennett, rang her in the Oval Office saying Christopher Worthy, Director of the Secret Service would like to see her. Damn, more security stuff...I’m up to my ears with that, can’t it wait? She thought. “Send him in, Julia, but I’m about maxed out right now. This has to be as brief as possible. I’m hungry and I would like a glass of wine at some point.”

  When the door closed Rachel rose from one of the club chairs in the office. She had yet to take her place behind the desk out of her near reverential respect for the man she had served so faithfully over the years. She moved across the room to shake Worthy’s hand. “Good evening Chris, it’s been a long day for everyone.”

  “Good evening ma’am,” he said formally and with a dour expression. “Yes this is a very sad day for everyone, me especially. Madam President, the assassination of President Braxton occurred on my watch, and I am responsible. I regret I have failed this country and the Secret Service egregiously.” Worthy reached in his jacket pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Hunter with both hands. “This is my resignation, effective immediately, as Director of the Secret Service. I have asked my assistant, Mr. Riggs, to pack up my personal items and have them shipped to me. When I leave today I will not be returning to the White House. Here also is my ‘A’ badge. I would prefer to be escorted out of the White House and driven off the grounds by an agent. Mr. Riggs has also been instructed to revoke my computer and email privileges immediately.”

  With that Christopher Worthy stood at attention in front of Rachel Hunter but could not bring himself to make eye contact. At first Rachel thought of making what she knew would be disingenuous efforts to talk him out of his decision, but then she thought the better of it. Both knew that this was the right decision. Substantial changes in Presidential protection procedures would have to be made in light of Braxton’s assassination, and there would be little confidence that Worthy was the person to manage them.

  After an uncomfortable period of silence, President Rachel Hunter reached out and shook his hand saying, “Thank you for your service to our country, Mr. Worthy. I appreciate your courageous decision. Please wait outside and Ms. Bennett will arrange for you to be escorted out.” As Worthy took his leave, Rachel Hunter reflected that this, too, was one of the realities of being President, and she momentarily hated it.

  Just as the new President was starting to feel that events of the day had overwhelmed her, Julia Bennett buzzed the office and Rachel picked up the phone with some trepidation. “Ms. President, I have a pleasant surprise for you. May I come in?”

  “Yes, of course, Julia. Something pleasant would be a welc
ome thing right now.”

  In a moment Julia Bennett opened the door and walked in followed by Jonathan Braxton’s personal chef and butler, the ever-dignified and understated Maurice.

  “Good evening, Madam President,” said Maurice. “I hope I am not being presumptuous, but I know this has been a difficult day for you, as it has been for the rest of us. I took the liberty of cooking a small filet, baked potato, and some steamed asparagus for you. I have it outside if you would like it. I also have some of your favorite wine, some California Cabernet. Perhaps you would like me to serve it to you right here.”

  Suddenly Rachel remembered that she had had very little to eat all day. She was ravenously hungry and in need of a break. In the first moment of genuine happiness of the day, she smiled at Maurice and said, “Maurice, you are a gem of a gentleman! Now I know why President Braxton valued your service so much. Yes, of course, please bring the food in. I can smell it from here. Also, I would like to share a glass of wine with you and Ms. Bennett as we raise a glass out of our deeply held respect for Jonathan Braxton.” As they did so, Rachel could see the hint of emerging tears in the eyes of Maurice.

  “Madam President, when you are finished with dinner and want to come upstairs, my wife, Virginia, is here tonight and is waiting to show you around the personal residence. She and the staff will have it completely ready for you tomorrow evening. If there’s anything special you need, please let her know. Ms. Bennett has programmed our cell phone numbers into your secure phone in the residence. Just call or text and we are available to you 24/7.”

  “Thank you Maurice. I’ll be up later.”

  Before leaving, Maurice, spoke softly in his deep baritone, “Ms. President, on behalf of my wife and I, I would like to say it’s nice to have you here...but that’s a difficult thing for me. I,...we thought the world of President Braxton.”

  “I understand, Maurice. We all did.”

  As those memories of her first day in office slowly faded, President Rachel Hunter drifted off into a deep sleep, gathering strength to face the challenges of tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 12

  ANN’S REACTION

  “It’s alright for a woman to be, above all, human. I am a woman first of all.”

  Anais Nin

  *

  The low, repetitive ‘boop-boop’ toning of the bedside phone in Anne and Bernie Lyon’s master bedroom in Norfolk roused Bernie from a fitful sleep. He cast an annoyed glance at his wife as she blissfully slept through the noise. No trouble sleeping for her, he thought to himself. It was difficult enough for Bernie to fall asleep and stay asleep these days, even with the prescription sleeping pills grudgingly provided by his father, Doctor Mack Lyon. Any interruption of his cherished release from consciousness put the retired Navy Commander immediately on edge.

  Bernie reached for the portable phone and grumbled “hello” as if to tell the caller he was none too happy for the interruption.

  “Dad, it’s Chance.”

  Bernie mentally relaxed, momentarily embarrassed by his selfish impatience. He hoped his son would not be put off by his gruffness. “Damn, son, it’s either a late night or an early morning for you. It’s zero-dark-thirty here.”

  “Bad news, dad, the President has been shot. He may be dead,” Chance announced bluntly. “He’s in China, and there was an attempt on his life at a diplomatic reception. Turn on the news and wake Anne. That’s all I know at the moment. I’m working my contacts for more info. I’ll check-in later.”

  “Jesus, that’s a blow,” said Bernie Lyon now fully awake. “After Reagan, I thought the Secret Service had this thing locked down tight.”

  “You know what I know, Dad. We’ll talk later today when there’s more news. Say hi to Anne.”

  Chance broke phone contact with his father and began to query his social network to get some hard information from his digital Rolodex of valuable and well-connected intelligence sources that would augment news emanating from the sheep-herd of electronic media covering the President’s visit.

  As a private security contractor who had done work for two government agencies when they required “unconventional services,” any crisis involving a government official, particularly the President of the United States, got Chance Lyon’s juices flowing and his professional antennae at full attention. How long would it be, he wondered, before he received a phone call or a text from someone reporting directly to the Director of the CIA, Marilyn Mitchell, or FBI Director Clayton Wheatley himself, requesting that he come to Washington for a meeting to discuss matters of mutual interest?

  Chance briefly reflected back to the visit he and his partner, John Olyphant, had made to Mexico earlier in the year to resolve a matter involving three Islamic terrorists who had attacked a former high-level U.S. intelligence agent in California but had escaped to Mexico before legal action could be taken. Such was an example of the type of unorthodox crisis-management services SEALyon Security was so inimitably capable of providing to certain shadowy clients faced with few legal or ethical options.

  *

  Bernie’s brief telephone conversation roused Anne Lyon from her sleep. She reached over and touched Bernie in the darkness. “Who was that Bern?” she asked groggily.

  As Bernie searched for the TV remote, he pulled himself to an upright position and responded, “That was Chance. He said the President has been shot while traveling in China. He may be dead. That’s all he knows. I’m turning on the news. My God, this can’t be true...there’s just too much security!”

  As CNN flickered on and overcame the darkness of the bedroom, Anne Lyon began to reach full wakefulness and her cognition gradually caught up with the moment. CNN was pulling out all the stops. The anchor desk was shifting between beat reporters in Washington and those covering the presidential entourage virtually shouting into their respective microphones. At this point, they had as many questions as they had answers. The only facts seemed to be that there had been a shooting in the Great Hall of the People in Beijing which, ironically, was off limits to the overwhelming majority of Chinese citizens and foreign visitors, and the President of the United States had been a victim. The identity of the assailant, the President’s condition, and if there were other victims, was still unclear.

  A pool reporter from the Associated Press who had been allowed inside to witness and report on the dinner reported to his outside contact that due to the somberness of some of the United States’ Secret Service personnel in the immediate aftermath, it didn’t look good for the wounded President. But that was purely speculation at the moment, and there had been no official announcement. The networks, desperate for any hard news, were forced to use fill-in material for video while the managing editors in New York and Atlanta screamed into their telephone links to the on-site reporters for any bit of hard news. For TV news, a situation involving the personal safety of a sitting U.S. President was the equivalent of a military DEFCON-One alert.

  *

  Anne brushed back her hair and sat dumbstruck. She only half heard the television news reports. At times such as these, when the person in the news was a person the viewer knew personally, the personal remembrances took equal stage with the current event, however newsworthy it may be. Even as Anne shared the bed with her husband this fateful morning, she was embarrassed to feel a rush of flashbacks of intimacy she had experienced with President Jonathan Braxton in the past. Anxious to rid her psyche of such sexually explicit thoughts she got out of bed and headed to the kitchen to make coffee. She became momentarily angry with herself as she fumbled with the simple kitchen activity, knowing the distraction of her personal emotional thoughts about Braxton had invaded her otherwise rational thought processes. Damn and double-damn, she seethed privately and helplessly. That man still has the hook in me. I should have known better.

  In spite of Anne’s attempts to appear emotionally detached while expressing shock at the assassination of President Braxton, she found herself having to work hard not to show genuine grief for her former
lover.

  The report crawled across the TV screen that others seated near Braxton had been wounded and possibly killed by the assassin, causing Anne to cringe. What if we had been married by now? She thought. I might have been made a widow by violence for the second time or might have even been a victim myself.

  CHAPTER 13

  GRIEF AND DISCONTENT

  “Now is the summer of our discontent.”

  Shakespeare

  *

  The day of the President’s state funeral in Washington, D.C., after the shooting in Beijing, Anne and Bernie were, like millions around the world, glued to the television. News coverage showed the solemn and subdued pomp of the procession of President Braxton’s burial coffin being carried on a horse-drawn carriage to Arlington National Cemetery, a ceremony reserved for a head of state or great military leader. Immediately behind the carriage strode the new President of the United States, Rachel Hunter. She walked with erect dignity, with no visible secret service protection, as if to say to the watching world, friend and foe alike, we are Americans, and we are not afraid. This nation has never been driven by nor succumbed to fear, and we will not give in to fear, even in this dark moment. We will bury our dead and take time to grieve, but soon enough we will again take up the torch to promote personal liberty throughout the World. This vision, electronically beamed to the millions watching in solemn silence, of this strong woman leading the funeral cortege of yet another fallen president, was exactly what a shocked and sorrowed nation needed in its time of crisis.

  Bernie had left the house to pick-up food, and when he returned he was surprised to find Anne lying out on the couch quietly weeping. “I hope those are tears of joy about my return, and not your continued grieving for your old buddy Braxton,” Bernie said caustically, as he put down the take-out food.