Line of Succession bc-1

by William Tyree

  Speers understood. But he disagreed. He didn’t think that anyone in the White House should be going anywhere during wartime, and especially with predators right in their own government. But he realized he had pushed the limits of his freedom. As the vacant chairs in the Cabinet room illustrated, President Hatch had no trouble terminating long-term relationships once he felt they weren’t serving his interests. Speers had no choice but to agree. “Yes, Mister President.”

  Speers stood pondering his options as the Commander-in-Chief exited down the hallway. Mary re-entered her office and put her hand on Speers’ shoulder. The two had first been colleagues at the Governor’s mansion in Virginia eight years earlier. “Need to talk about it?”

  “Nah. I’ll be okay.”

  “The President just asked me to help with your travel arrangements. He said not to take no for an answer.”

  “Okay, Mary. I won’t argue with you. Please get me on the next flight to Charleston, West Virginia.”

  Mary squinted on him. “Who in their right mind vacations in West Virginia in August?”

  Pennsylvania Avenue

  8:15 a.m.

  Corporal Hammond drove Wainewright’s black armored BMW SUV in silence up Pennsylvania Avenue. Hammond was a pencil-thin 21-year-old who hailed from Bakersfield, California, spent his vacations cruising bathhouses in West Hollywood, and had ambitions of one day leveraging his experience in the Pentagon to negotiate a hefty salary as an analyst at Ulysses USA.

  He had learned early on in his post at the Chairman’s Pentagon offices not to speak until the General spoke to him first. This rule was especially important after National Security meetings at the White House. Wainewright was always especially tense before and after these meetings. Hammond glanced at his boss in the rear view mirror. Sure enough, his left eyelid twitched. It always did when he was upset.

  “Fact,” General Wainewright said without preamble, “thirty-six states will face severe water shortages in the next ten years.” In private moments, the General tended to say odd things out of the blue. Corporal Hammond had still not gotten used to it.

  “I didn’t know that, sir,” Hammond replied. He had learned never to offer his own views on any subject the General threw his way. Wainewright was easily upset.

  “You’re from California,” Wainewright continued. “Your state is using way more than its share of the world’s clean drinking water. And who do you think pays for that?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir.”

  “The rest of us! And the President’s doing nothing about it.”

  Hammond looked into the rear view mirror. The whites of his boss’ eyes were pink and his pupils looked as sharp as pencil points. He prayed that the General’s phone might ring.

  “Are you religious?” Wainewright said without segue.

  “Yes sir,” Corporal Hammond said. “My parents brought me up Presbyterian.”

  “Do your parents love Israel? Do they believe in defending it?”

  “They visited the Holy Land when I was fifteen,” Hammond said hesitantly. “It was a dream trip for them, sir.”

  Wainewright leaned forward and spoke to the back of Hammond’s head. “Pop quiz: what was the root cause of the Six-Day war between between Israel and Syria?”

  “I don’t believe we covered that in school, sir.”

  “Take a wild-ass guess.”

  “Anti-Semetism, sir?

  “Water rights.”

  “Good to know, sir.”

  “Most people would say the war was started by Syrian terrorist attacks. But what was the root cause of that terrorism? Israel was diverting water from the River Jordan to the Sea of Galilee. People were afraid they were going to die of thirst, Corporal. ”

  “Very interesting, sir.”

  “Fact: The United States pays Egypt and Israel billions of dollars in foreign aid each year not to fight each other.”

  “I didn’t know that, sir.”

  “We call it peacekeeping. You have any idea what kind of water-conserving technology we could make if we weren’t paying the Middle East not to self-destruct?”

  “Not a clue, sir.”

  “Fact: There are certain powerful evangelical groups that support Israel not because they embrace or even tolerate Judaism, but because they believe the Biblical prophecies stating that Jews have to be in certain settlements for the End of Days.”

  Hammond thought they had been discussing water rights. Now he had no idea what the common thread of this conversation was about. He chose to remain silent.

  The General sighed and said, “You understand what I mean by the End of Days?”

  “No sir. I mean not exactly, sir.”

  Wainewright laughed darkly. “Fact: The creation of Israel was an evangelical wet dream. Luke 21:20–33. Look it up. Jews will be judged and subsequently wiped out, just as the Christians will be judged and ascend to heaven to sit at the right hand of God. In order for the prophecies in the Bible to be fulfilled, Israel must continue to exist.”

  The Corporal was still a small town boy at heart. He hadn’t met anyone in the military that was so openly critical of the Church. He tried to remain polite. “Thank you for the information, sir.”

  “Shut up.” Wainewright pulled an open bottle of sparkling water from his drink holder, took a long sip and looked out the window. “Pull over in front of the park. We’re taking a meeting.”

  Hammond merged into the right lane and pulled into a curbside spot in front of James Monroe Park, a sliver of green space where local yuppies took their dogs to poop on the grass. “Is this good, sir?”

  “Put up the divider.”

  Thank God. Corporal Hammond pressed the divider button. A layer of tinted soundproof glass rose between the front and back seat. He caught movement in his peripheral vision and saw a man in an oversized black button-down shirt and sunglasses approach the car from the passenger side. The man, who seemed to have trouble walking, hobbled toward the BMW’s rear passenger door and tapped a gold-tipped cane on the glass.

  *

  Jeff Taylor’s Stanford MBA had done little to prepare him for his job as a Blackwater executive during the American occupation in Iraq. He escaped three ambushes during his first months in the country. In his sixth month, an IED detonated under his SUV, killing two of his colleagues and vaporizing his own legs above the knee. Taylor spent the next three months enduring various surgeries, then a few more learning how to walk with his new artificial legs.

  By the time he was ready to go back to work, Blackwater had been banned from Iraq for indiscriminate use of force. It was bad timing for everyone involved. The American military was ramping back up in Afghanistan and could no longer maintain their troop levels in Iraq. The Iraqi infrastructure was growing steadily, but the government was still in no position to take up the slack that Blackwater had provided.

  But while the rest of the world saw disaster, Taylor saw nothing but opportunity. He saw the private security industry as a veritable gold rush, an ancient industry that was still in a pubescent stage. His time in Blackwater had given him invaluable ties in the Pentagon that he had kept strong. He also had kept in touch with many of the company’s laid-off employees. He began working the phones, calling his network of B-School grads, pitching the investment opportunities that could be made from the treasure trove of available government contracts. During the first round of fundraising for his Ulysses USA, he garnered $350 million in venture capital. Ulysses USA was born.

  These days, Taylor had few complaints. Ulysses USA had taken in 9 billion dollars during the previous fiscal year. Given the President’s voracious interventionist foreign policy, and the precipitous drop in volunteer military recruiting, Ulysses was still poised for growth. His primary challenge was dealing with the meddling and impossible personal demands of his biggest advocate, General Wainewright.

  Taylor climbed into the SUV and sat next to the General. As usual, Wainewright spoke to Taylor without ever looking him in the face. “Appre
ciate you coming.”

  “I don’t see why we couldn’t meet in Chantilly,” Taylor grumbled. Ulysses had recently completed its new corporate headquarters in Chantilly, Virginia. The campus included a private residence for Taylor and hydrogen-powered vehicles that whisked the disabled CEO anywhere he wanted to go in the sprawling complex.

  Wainewright bristled. He had personally signed twelve billion dollars in new government contracts over to Ulysses in the past year, and had given the company access to some of the finest weaponry the United States military had in its possession. He realized that Taylor’s injuries handicapped him a little, but he didn’t see why taking a trip into the Capitol every once in a while was such a big deal.

  “Your errand boy came to the Pentagon yesterday,” Wainewright said. “He assured me my facility is ready to go. I wanted to hear it from you.”

  “That errand boy is the 60-year-old COO of my Engineering division,” Taylor pointed out. “And like the man said, the facility is ready.”

  “Good. I’ll be needing it today.”

  Taylor’s skin turned a little paler. “Today?”

  “I trust that won’t be a problem.”

  “It’s just that…that kind of facility is really built for the unexpected.”

  Wainewright measured his response. “Our intelligence has picked up on something. This is purely classified, you understand.”

  “I won’t breathe a word, General.” Taylor was clearly startled. “Is there anything you can tell me personally? Should I stay away from airports? Shopping malls?”

  Wainewright ignored the question. “I’m also going to need those forces you promised me.” The General was referring to an order for three full battalions of elite Ulysses soldiers that would answer directly to him. “Put the control operations team on alert. That means bags packed, ready to go at a moment’s notice. The other units we discussed shouldn’t stray too far from home either.”

  Taylor laughed nervously. “General, I’ve always been able to come up with what you need at the drop of a hat, but this is — ”

  “Are you happy with your stock price?” Wainewright said. He waited for Taylor to nod his head submissively. Then he began again: “Then know your place. All I have to do is speculate on a few of your government contracts. Just a little slip of the tongue, and Ulysses stock plummets by fifty percent or better.”

  The CEO’s face lost more color. “There’s no need for threats,” he said. “We want the same things. You’ll get what you’ve asked for.”

  “Next item. One of your senior field operatives works for me now.”

  “Who? I haven’t been notified of any key staff changes.”

  “That will become clear to you shortly. All you need to know is that he’s going to stay on your books and continue to enjoy his salary. I trust that’ll be all right with you.”

  Taylor was hardly in a position to refuse. Although Ulysses had a growing revenue stream in private corporate contracts, losing the Pentagon’s business now would be fatal. They had spent heavily this year on R amp; D, infrastructure and recruiting. Property taxes on the Chantilly compound alone would be nearly nine hundred million dollars a year. The bulk of their business plan was built around growth of Pentagon contracts, and leveraging that growth for global market share. Without the Pentagon’s continued revenue, the security giant would be woefully overextended. They would have to lay off most of the soldiers they had spent so much to train.

  Wainewright extended his hand and shook Taylor’s. “Forget it. Thanks for coming into the city.” With that, Taylor opened the door, steadied his cane on the ground, and hobbled back to the stretch limousine waiting for him on the other side of the park.

  Georgetown

  9:20 a.m.

  Carver returned to Field House DC310 rolling two pieces of luggage behind him. It was the high-end stuff — industrial-grade locks, dent-proof, leak-proof — that he would never be able to afford on his government salary. It wasn’t, however, beyond the means of his alias, Ethan Danforth. Sometimes being a spy had its perks. Too bad the luggage wasn’t packed for an island vacation.

  He drew his gun discreetly before unlocking the door. It wasn’t likely that the perpetrators would return to the scene of the murder, but he would take no chances. He popped inside and cleared the ground floor rooms first, then the upstairs, where he found the point of entry — one of the rear upstairs windows had been broken, the too-thin window bars clipped with some sort of bolt-cutter. An aluminum ladder was still extended from the back lawn. Damn. If the agency couldn’t afford to secure field houses, they should be condemned.

  Carver went back downstairs, stopping for a moment to appreciate the photos that had been digitally created by the agency graphic arts department. Despite Carver and O’Keefe having never appeared together in public, or even taken a single photo together, the agency had inserted them as a couple at several black-tie affairs. They were dancing. Talking with “friends.” Holding champagne glasses. Another set had them at a wedding among a big family that Carver wished was his own. He had to admit that he and O’Keefe looked good together in their alternate universe. It was too bad that the field house had been compromised. All these pics would have to be destroyed. He was going to miss them.

  In the basement he found Lieutenant Flynn’s body on the floor in the same position O’Keefe had described to him on the phone. The sleeve of Flynn’s uniform was still twisted around his neck. Carver pulled it away and noted that the bruises around the neck were consistent with O’Keefe’s assessment. Flynn had been garroted.

  He shook his head. The crime scene was bound to be full of DNA samples. If only he could get the lab out here, as O’Keefe had suggested. But that was impossible now. He had to clean this mess up so that the clandestine investigation wouldn’t be discovered. He had to protect the President. And Julian. Definitely Julian. The Chief had no idea what kind of trouble he had let loose with his investigation.

  He opened the luggage and pulled out rubber gloves, sheets of plastic, a chemical suit, cleaning equipment and an electric buzz saw with spare blades. He tested the blade’s sharpness against the fleshy part of his palm. Then he plugged it into an outlet near the basement sink.

  The chemical suit was made of lightweight nylon, the type used by pest control professionals or arborists, not bio-engineers. He pulled it on and followed with the gloves. Then he stacked several antique milk crates next to the sink, taking care to ensure that the height was equivalent. Finally, he covered the area in plastic sheets — walls, floor and ceiling. He checked his watch. It had been eighteen minutes since he had entered the house. He had to hurry. He was supposed to meet O’Keefe at Lee Federal Penitentiary shortly.

  He grabbed Flynn by the ankles and began dragging him across the basement. It never failed. The officer was much heavier dead than alive. What about those twelve grams the body was supposed to lose after death? It felt more like twelve tons were added.

  With some trying, he managed to get Flynn’s torso up on the milk crates. The Lieutenant’s stiff legs were now extended over the sink.

  As Carver turned on the tap, he gazed up at the black and white photo of the home’s prior inhabitants filleting trout at the very sink where he was about to dismember Flynn. A chuckle escaped his lips.

  “Sorry,” he said as he picked up the saw. “I mean no disrespect.”

  Yeager Airport

  Charleston, West Virginia

  10:40 a.m.

  Speers drove out of the airport rental car lot in a white economy car, still wearing the gray suit he’d questioned Lieutenant Flynn in before sunup. He got onto the freeway and spoke slowly to the car’s navigation system: “Local search. Monroe. West Virginia. Holy Grace Baptist Church.”

  The nav chewed on the request for a moment before it started barking out orders. “Turn left in twenty feet…Merge right onto I-79…Straight ahead for one mile…”

  He had napped for the entire 73-minute duration of the flight, and yet he was
still groggy enough to have trouble following the nav system’s directions. He managed to merge onto I-79 toward Monroe before his phone rang.

  It was Mrs. Tenningclaus, his 71-year-old neighbor. “Good morning, Misses Tenningclaus,” Speers answered. “How are you?”

  “Julian dear,” Mrs. Tenningclaus began, “My sister in Phoenix broke her hip.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Is she okay?”

  “I just said she broke her hip. I’m headed to Arizona to see her right now. Would you be a prince and look in on the cats?”

  Mrs. Tenningclaus lived all alone in the big brownstone across from Speers’ building, and the fact that Speers was the White House Chief of Staff — one of the most important jobs in the free world — did not dissuade her from calling on him often for trivial errands or cat sitting. Like Speers, she didn’t have any other family in town. Speers didn’t mind. Mrs. Tenningclaus reminded Speers of his late mother, who had passed from heart disease during the President’s first term. Plus, he was often rewarded with Ms. Tenningclaus’ homemade blueberry scones and strawberry jam. He loved the look on her face when he told her it was the best damn jam in D.C.

  “Consider it done,” Speers told her just as his call waiting flashed. He bid Ms. Tenningclaus good luck and switched to the other line, where Carver began complaining immediately.

  “I’ve been trying to get through for an hour,” Carver said.

  “Just got off the plane,” Speers explained. “On my way to see Congressman Bailey now.”

  “Hold it. You’re not actually going to come right out and ask him about Lieutenant Flynn, are you?”

  “You know your problem, Carver? You’re a cynic. You assume everyone’s dirty. There may be a perfectly good reason that Lieutenant Flynn called the Speaker of the House.”

  Carver couldn’t believe his ears. “Oh, like what? Are they both members of the Capitol City Men’s Chorus?”