Swap Out!

by M. L. Buchman

  CHAPTER 54

  Jeff launched off the last rung with his final bit of breath. His lungs were screaming with pain. Fifty feet? Five hundred?

  Swim, damn it! A hard kick off the bottom of the silo and he shot to the surface. There he gasped and flailed and choked.

  A powerful hand grabbed his collar and hauled him to one side.

  He hung onto the edge of the pool and sucked in great bouts of fresh air. It was wonderful. Better than the most aromatic Tuscan roast.

  As soon as his head stopped spinning, he looked around. They were in a dark pool, lit by a single light revealing a circular room.

  They’d just swum in a great circle and were right back where they’d started. What purpose had that served?

  “Let’s move.”

  He crawled out and rested on his hands and knees while he coughed out some more water from somewhere deep and painful.

  Shelley was tapping at a keyboard mounted near the base of the stairs. Stairs. Two hundred feet of stairs. Twenty stories straight up. He’d wait for the bad guys to come and get him. Then it would all be over. That was fine right about now.

  A loud ping filled the air, one he’d heard three days ago in a Chicago high-rise.

  Thank God! There was an elevator.

  Shelley helped him to his feet, even dragging an arm over her shoulder, and led him over to it.

  “They didn’t break into this silo yet.”

  This silo? They must be in the training one.

  They hadn’t swum the Great Circle route, though he felt as if he had. They’d swum out of the main silo and over into the training one. The two were connected by underground swimming pools. That would stump the raiders for a while.

  “I also just turned off the lights over there and released a couple dozen more bowling balls into the system. Always thought of it as only a training device.”

  It had trained him. Trained him that there was a paranoid world he’d rather not live in. And, if he’d had any doubts, the raiders had just proven that world was real and not some figment of Shelley’s imagination.

  Shelley closed the gate and started the elevator upward.

  Training silo? “It won’t take long for them to find us over here.” Jeff stared up, any second they could attack from above and cut off their retreat.

  “The blast doors. They have two blast doors to get through. Doors designed to withstand the blast of an Atlas rocket. Not something you can just mosey through.”

  “Then how did they get into the first silo?”

  “I think they must have gotten an operative in through the front entrance before we passed through and locked it down. He could open the car garage door from the inside for them after we passed by. Never thought to seal the silo when I wasn’t in it. Stupid of me, damn stupid. It only takes one mistake and that was mine. We’re lucky we’re alive.”

  The elevator rattled to a stop.

  He recognized the smell of dust in the air, along with fired weapons, and burnt electronics. The sixth level, exfiltration training. Destroyed, not by the invaders, but by Jeff the Chef Davis. He was feeling better and had gotten his breath back. He felt almost good enough to be cocky, then thought better of it.

  “Grim!” Shelley’s shout echoed around the chamber.

  “Yo!” He slid out of a bush not five feet away. Not a single bell tinkled. The rest of the squad slid into view. Even the sergeant raised no alarm. He’d been humbled enough in the last few days that he didn’t look very cocky either. Jeff felt some empathy for the poor man. His world was not as he’d believed it to be with himself safely on top of the ant hill. A young woman had consistently outmaneuvered him, his Senior Airman had consistently outperformed him, and an old fart with a ponytail had blown up the scenario he couldn’t even survive.

  She nodded to the team. All the acknowledgment they were likely to get today for a job well done.

  “You two are all wet.” Grim observed aloud as if they hadn’t noticed it themselves. That earned him a scowl from both of them.

  Jeff’s clothes were cooling quickly, but he resisted a shiver and vehemently denied any goosebumps the right to form as Shelley apparently didn’t even notice she was wet.

  “There are raiders in my silo. I need you to protect these people. You remember the route we discussed?”

  Grim’s eyes went wide, but he nodded. Everyone behind him shifted their orange-marked weapons to ready position.

  “No. Unh-uh. This is not a test. These are hunters, hunters of people. If they find you, you’ll be dead. These are people I myself wouldn’t go up against. They are after my guest here, and wouldn’t blink about removing the rest of us if we got in their way.”

  Jeff hadn’t connected that. He was the target of this raid. They’d traced him down his missile silo-shaped hole and were going to get him whether he was a chef or a white rabbit with an oversized pocket watch.

  Their faces went somber. They all looked toward Penny for guidance who nodded toward Shelley to return their attention to her. Did the sergeant realize that he’d just been demoted? The team had chosen a new leader, at least in fact if not reality.

  “I must leave you in Grim’s care. He will make sure you are safely evacuated.” She turned her attention back to Grim. “I repeat. Do not confront these hunters.”

  “Get rid of those stupid things,” she indicated the training guns. “Get them armed and get them out of here. I’ll contact you per usual.” She restarted the elevator. Grim had them moving for the stairs even before the elevator began rising out of sight.

  “If we get out of this.” Her comment was soft enough that only Jeff could hear it. He wished to hell that he hadn’t.

  CHAPTER 55

  First Lady Lindsey Grant had gone straight to bed the night before. It had been a mistake.

  The pen cup on her desk was turned around backwards, could have been that way when she arrived last night. Today’s schedule was already a mess beyond belief and now she had to find another hole in it.

  She grabbed her agenda and a pen, twisting the cup back into its normal position as she extracted the pen. Her secretary had been there before her. By some dint of magic, Tina had worked a thirty-minute swim into a fully booked schedule. So either Tina had been the cup turner, or had connected that the First Lady needed a swim whenever her pen cup was turned. It was a little game that they both pretended the other didn’t know.

  But she definitely owed Tina another plate of cookies for making the gap for her.

  Her half hour was between two school group visits and a meeting with house staff regarding the upcoming British state dinner. The new Prime Minister was touring the global capitals with his fiancé, an Australian supermodel and valedictorian of the prestigious Solar Thermal Energy Research department of Australian National University. A specialist in the complex mathematics of molecular energy transfer.

  Wonder what their pillow talk was like? It was one of the games she played when she met interesting couples, and she’d met many courtesy of her position as wife to the elected ruler of the free world.

  Hopefully none of them had the complete lack of pillow talk she suffered through. The President’s idea of a good time was a quick screw a couple times a week, always on his whim, because her whim would be never. Yet another part of their eventual divorce she was looking forward to.

  The students. The first group were urban, inner-city local grade-schoolers, and second, two dozen law students from her alma mater department at George Washington University. Both went at an agonizingly slow pace. Everyone asking their carefully rehearsed questions of the esteemed First Lady.

  How she wished one of them would break loose and please ask her something personal? Probably brighten up an otherwise boring fifteen minutes.

  Of course if they asked about her husband, she might not watch her words, and it wasn’t a good idea to
insult the President while standing inside the White House banquet room.

  At last! Thirty minutes free. She rushed down for the swim. The Secret Service swept the room and then she closed them out. They’d been very upset that she wouldn’t allow even a female agent to be in attendance. It was the one time she’d put her foot down on security and with good reason.

  A dozen laps, probably as quickly as she’d ever done them, and she was into the locker room, her heart racing and light-headed from lack of oxygen. This time she bolted door. It would upset the Secret Service if they ever found out, but they wouldn’t unless they insisted on breaking in against her orders.

  She got into the shower with the waterproof satellite phone from her sweater vest pocket. The water would mask all but the most intrusive microphones. In moments, she’d keyed the number while holding the phone close enough between her breasts that no camera angle, if there were any, could record the number, then flipped on the encryption and stepped under the water.

  “Grksrknef,” was the answer.

  “Hello.” She waited while the other party turned on the encrypt-decrypt and keyed in today’s code.

  “Good morning, Mrs. First Lady.”

  “If you don’t call me by my name, I won’t respond.”

  “Are you enjoying your shower, Mrs. Grant?”

  “Ha. Ha. Ha. I have five minutes.”

  “I’ll be to the point. Due to recent losses we’ve had to shift our priorities. We are presently unable to offer you any support for several days at least.”

  Support? What had she requested? She hadn’t called this number in weeks, maybe longer. Hadn’t needed anything for China, Japan, or Vietnam. Her husband was the first sitting President to go there since the war. Another reason for his stunning popularity at the moment, so conveniently close to the election. She shoved her head under the shower and scrubbed at her hair with one hand to wake up her brain cells and rinse out the chlorine.

  Right. It wasn’t always all about her.

  “Trouble? How can I help? Hold it. What recent losses?”

  There was no response. She finally moved her head out of the shower to see if there was something she couldn’t hear, but while the line was still alive, there was no voice.

  Then, quietly, so quietly.

  “I regret to be the one to inform you. Colonel Peterson was murdered on national television five days ago. The same day you flew out to the Far East. A number of operators in various departments both foreign and domestic have been killed since.”

  She moved back under the shower to wash away the burning in her eyes.

  “I’m so sorry. Phi—” No names outbound. Right.

  “Is there anything . . .” No. Of course there wasn’t. She hated these games. Games that were played with lives.

  “Was my husband involved?” Many operators killed. There was another clandestine war going on and this time it involved the death of a friend’s brother.

  Another pause as her blood pounded against ears so hard it hurt. If her bastard of a husband had—

  “We don’t believe he was directly involved. Certain parties were mobilized that would normally require Presidential findings, but we can make no clearer determination at this time.”

  Not directly. Findings? That meant there had been more than a quiet war. There’d been illicit, perhaps genuinely illegal activity. The certain parties would be intelligence or covert operators. Several killed, including poor Phillip. That put it in the covert group. A group only her husband could order about. Military? No, her friend on the phone said “operators” which meant Special Operations Forces operators. Much more dangerous.

  “Is there something I can do?”

  “Hold a moment please. Something just arrived.”

  She waited. And waited. Lindsey didn’t realize she was holding her breath until she had to gasp for air and then choked on a mouthful of water.

  “Are you okay, Mrs. Grant?”

  “Ye-es.” She kept her mouth squeezed shut against another cough.

  “Mrs. Grant. There appears to be international involvement. Possibly the British.”

  “The British. They will be here in . . .” she consulted the clock in her head that made sure she was never late for any appointment. “The Prime Minister and his bride-to-be will arrive here in thirty-seven hours.”

  “Interesting. I believe that I may have more detailed information for you shortly. Until that time, please keep this phone with you if at all possible.”

  “And?” She could hear the unspoken ‘and.’

  There was a pause, then, “No ‘and.’ Not yet at least.”

  The line went dead.

  Lindsey closed the phone and soaped quickly.

  Keep the phone with her? That was new. Calls had always been outbound, never incoming.

  Shortly? How soon was shortly? Shortly as in before her meetings about tomorrow night’s state dinner? Which started in six minutes. Not likely.

  She rinsed off.

  Shortly as in the day and a half before the state dinner itself? Very likely. Hard to guess the timing in between.

  What else did she know?

  She knew her husband was almost definitely involved. Maybe it was time to drop in on him for lunch if his schedule allowed, or even if it didn’t. First Wifely privilege.

  But first, she’d better get out of the shower and catch up on the news.

  CHAPTER 56

  Jeff’s feet were killing him by the time they reached the neighbor’s farm house. Shelley had still worn her boots as they left her quarters, her underground condo, but he’d missed the opportunity to kick into his while contemplating the crystalline bear. Every pebble, every twig, every blade of grass dug through his shredded socks. A city kid never had tough feet. Especially not fifty-five year old city kids.

  His clothes had dried in the first half of the three-mile trot and then been instantly soaked by a sudden cloudburst for the second half. His pleasure at breathing fresh air for the first time in a week was replaced by the agony of not being able to get enough of it into his chest as they ran.

  Shelley pounded on the red farmhouse door, but there was no response.

  He hobbled after her to the barn.

  An old farmer sat on a hay bale just under the eaves. He wore jeans, flannel shirt, work boots, and a John Deere hat that had seen far too many summers of sun. Totally dry, Jeff couldn’t help noticing, the man had the sense to get in out of the rain. His hair and beard was gone past gray to white. A small four-wheel ATV in front of him was halfway through an oil change. That would have been the way to move across the fields.

  “Hi, Dwight.”

  “Shelley. Looking wet. You know it’s raining?”

  “It came to my attention.”

  There was a long silence. It reminded him of the three years he’d spent in New Hampshire with Mandy and Phillip. The local’s conversations were more about the silence than the words. He’d never gotten the hang of it.

  “What you and your long friend there need is a change of clothes.”

  “A change of clothes and Anne’s plane.”

  He leaned back on the hay and looked at them more closely. The man might be old, but Jeff had met publishing executives who were less astute.

  “Field’s wet. Bit muddy.”

  Muddy? Who cared about a little mud? There were people back there trying to shoot him.

  “The road?”

  Oh, the plane might get stuck in the mud.

  Again the silence. This time the man was studying Jeff carefully. “Anne’s not home to ask, but I’m guessin’ you don’t have time to wait. Maybe not even to scrape about for that change of clothes.”

  Shelley shook her head.

  He pushed to his feet and led them to the far end of the barn. Dozens of cows were locked in a long line of
stalls.

  “Calving right about now. Thought I’d keep these couple of ladies in here for a night or so in case they had trouble. The others are fine, but this group always get nervous right about now.”

  At the far end of the barn they could look out over the rolling pastures. Cows to the right and left, near and distant.

  “How many head do you have?” Jeff thought it a civil question.

  “Good question, lad.”

  He was old enough to call Jeff a lad, though not by much. He was about to protest when he caught the twinkle in the man’s eye, just ready for the challenge. Jeff kept his peace. The twinkle went away and Jeff realized that he’d just failed some test.

  “Fifteen hundred or so. What with the calving and all it be hard to keep close track.”

  To the right was a garage space. Another ATV, several large, fancy tractors in immaculate condition, and a small airplane. Very small.

  “Shelley, you want to fly in that? Do you know how?”

  That elicited a deep chuckle from Dwight.

  “That young lass taught me and my missus. You never seen my Anne so happy as when she goes for her evening flight. Just calms her right down. She’s a doctor, you know.”

  This time he did respond. “Cow doctor?”

  That friendly chuckle again and the twinkle was back in his eyes.

  “People doctor. FAA certified too.” He pointed a callused finger at a silver Airstream trailer parked out in the rain. “Full clinic out there. Pilots fly in, when the field won’t bog their wheels, get their medical, and fly back out. Nice little side business. Gets her out of the hospital couple days a week.”

  “And more excuses to fly herself.”

  Dwight nodded with satisfaction. “And more excuses to fly herself.”

  Together they watched in companionable silence as Shelley inspected the small plane. There was ritual and pattern to it. Some checklist was clearly being followed as she moved the tail section up and down by hand. He could see the wheel moving back and forth in the cockpit with no one there. Then she grabbed the vertical part of the tail and wiggled it side to side, the wheel turned right and left.