White: A Novel

by Christopher Whitcomb

  “And we have access to Air Force One?” he asked.

  “Same as the Pentagon.” Sirad nodded. “They won’t know the difference between us and some E-5 electronics tech.”

  “Excellent,” Mitchell said in a rare exclamation of approval. “I have an urgent message from the FBI to the president. Prepare to copy.”

  ELLIS LAY IN his wooded sniper hide, knowing his part in the endgame was just minutes away.

  Deep breath, he reminded himself. Adrenaline is the shooter’s scourge.

  His hands began to tremble as the three Marine Corps helicopters appeared from the northwest. He had lain in position for more than two hours now, but it wasn’t cold that made him shiver.

  Ammo, magazine, receiver, chamber, safety, trigger, scope, he silently recited. Each individual part of the process could fail, and there would be no second chance.

  Ellis dropped the magazine and tapped it gently against his forearm to make sure the monstrous cartridges had properly seated. He pulled back the heavy spring-loaded bolt and checked the receiver group to make sure nothing had fallen in to contaminate it. Finally, he inserted the magazine, released the bolt, and listened for the first round to slam into battery.

  Discipline, he coached himself. The colonel was a military man, born of violence and destined for delivery, but only God himself could guide what was to follow.

  The Phineas priest settled behind the massive weapon’s steel-and-plastic stock. He lowered his eye to the 10x Unertl scope and tested the swivel on his specially constructed bench rest. The stainless-steel device allowed free motion of the long black barrel.

  United States of America, he read through his scope: four words written on an airplane. Four words that still represented his second strongest allegiance.

  ELIZABETH BEECHUM HAD begun to assemble her shadow government as soon as the first armored Town Car arrived: forty members from each house of Congress; the secretaries of state, defense, interior; the attorney general; and three Supreme Court justices. Everyone gathered in a tiered 250-seat amphitheater fronted by a proscenium stage.

  Members of Congress gravitated into predictable caucuses—Republicans on the right, Democrats on the left. The cabinet members sat down front, the Supreme Court justices nestled quietly off to the side.

  “I’ll dispense with formality,” the vice president said. She spoke from a podium atop the stage. Her voice filled the room, courtesy of an ample PA, and conversation calmed to an almost palpable still.

  “I don’t know how much you have heard, but Washington’s water supply has been contaminated with radioactive material,” Beechum advised.

  Voices erupted again. These people had families and friends in the District.

  “Our experts tell us that it can be flushed out within days, but the president has ordered wholesale evacuation. His chopper just landed at Andrews Air Force Base. Kneecap should lift off within moments.”

  “Kneecap?” the junior senator from Rhode Island called out. “Isn’t that the Doomsday Plane?”

  “It’s a mobile command and control center,” she said in a clear, calm voice. “I have been authorized to tell you that the president plans to exercise his authority under the War Powers Act to launch retaliatory strikes against four strategic targets inside Saudi Arabia.”

  The group erupted again.

  “What kinds of attacks?” the House’s Republican whip called out. Rumors and speculation had already begun to spread.

  “Tactical nuclear,” Beechum announced to gasps and pockets of outrage. She stood at the podium, trying to present a visage of authority and calm.

  “That will start a holy war!” someone called out.

  “I know this comes as a shock to some of you,” she said. “But that’s the president’s decision. If you have any objections, I suggest you take them up with him.”

  “SHUT THE FUCK up,” the driver said.

  Jeremy sat in the back seat of a blacked-out Suburban. Two marked units raced ahead of them, lights and sirens blazing a path through downtown DC traffic.

  “I’m telling you, my name is Jeremy Waller. I’m an FBI agent assigned to the Hostage Rescue Team. I’ve been working a classified undercover operation in connection with this terrorism investigation.”

  They had restrained his feet and hands, but there was no way to silence his protests.

  “Fuck you,” the passenger said. “We’ve been surveilling you and your terrorist puke friends since you dropped off the concrete truck. So save the bullshit for your lawyer.”

  “All right, then, let me talk to him,” Jeremy agreed. If Caleb had been telling the truth, he desperately needed to find Beechum. Only she could prevent the president from launching the world into Armageddon. “When can I talk to my lawyer?”

  “Well, considering that you are an illegal enemy combatant, caught during the course of a national security investigation, and that we’re under no obligation even to acknowledge that you exist, I’d say sometime around the end of the next century, you asshole.”

  Jeremy’s heart actually hurt in his chest. Think! he screamed at himself. If he didn’t find a way to Beechum, the identity of Jafar al Tayar would rot with him in his grave.

  “Why don’t you accept that you’re busted, you traitor bastard?” the passenger said. He spun in his seat and jammed an accusatory finger in Jeremy’s still-bloody face. “The only things I want to hear out of your mouth are the names of the people you’re working with and the words I’m sorry.”

  Jeremy wanted to fight back, but a sudden moment of revelation froze him in his seat. That’s it! he thought. That’s the way out!

  “I’m sorry,” he said with all the remorse he could fake. “OK, I’ve said it. Now take me to the vice president and I’ll tell you everything I know.”

  “YOU’LL NEED TO take your seats immediately,” the flight officer advised. It was the first time President Venable had seen any member of his military entourage wearing camouflage BDUs.

  Andrea Chase led the way to the conference room, just behind the circular staircase leading to the upper deck. Dozens of people moved about inside the crowded wide-body, seeing to last-minute details of what could be a very long flight.

  Though the 747-200, reconfigured as an Air Force E-4B, may have resembled peacetime sister ships, its inner workings looked very different. The National Airborne Operations Center held up to 114 people, offered nuclear and thermal effects shielding, electromagnetic pulse protection, electronic missile defense countermeasures, and state-of-the-art communications equipment.

  “Hard to believe something this big could take off vertically,” Havelock remarked. He had never been a fan of flying and did not relish the thought of what lay ahead.

  “Four General Electric CF6-80C2B1 engines—generating fifty-six thousand seven hundred pounds of thrust each,” Oshinski said. His staff oversaw NAOC operations. “Not only can we generate high-angle assent, we can maintain indefinite flight above forty thousand feet with in-air refuelings.”

  “Are we ready?” the flight officer asked. He bent over to help Havelock fasten his specially designed seat belt. The jet’s monstrous engines cranked up, and the plane began to taxi out to the runway.

  “We will be, airman,” the general said. He motioned for the football, which the Air Force courier placed on the mahogany conference table. “I just want to make sure everything is in order should the president need to . . .”

  His words trailed off as the briefcase opened, exposing the mechanism of World War Three. He pulled out the “black book,” a seventy-five-page SIOP manual that divided military options into three categories: Major Attack Options, Selected Attack Options, and Limited Attack Options.

  “You have two plan packages to choose from, Mr. President,” Oshinski advised. He searched through the case to make sure everything was in proper order. “Launch on Warning or Launch Under Attack. I think it quite feasible that . . .”

  “Excuse me, sir,” an Air Force airman first class said,
knocking simultaneously at the conference room door. “I have Yankee White traffic for the president.”

  The flight officer nodded, and the airman delivered his paper.

  “What is it?” Chase asked as her boss read. It was her business to know everything that passed to him.

  “I don’t believe it,” Venable said. He read the copy again just to make sure. “It’s from the FBI’s SIOC . . . says they have backed off their assessment of Saudi involvement. It says they have identified a white supremacist, Christian Identity Movement group called the Phineas . . .”

  He turned to Havelock, his personal intelligence officer.

  “For God’s sake, they think this thing may be domestic.”

  BEECHUM AND HER on-scene administrator sat in the chief executive’s suite—a trio of offices that hadn’t seen duty since the weeks following 9/ 11.

  “The president is about to lift off from Andrews Air Force base,” FEMA’s director of operations said. “Though he maintains ultimate authority, the government has ceased to exist outside these walls. For all intents and purposes, you are the de facto head of nonmilitary operations. In the event that something happens to Air Force One, you will assume complete control.”

  The vice president nodded her head. She had already played first chair once during this crisis. Responsibility and the call to lead had never intimidated her.

  “I want to know the moment he goes wheels up,” she said. “Have we established communications?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the FEMA executive told her. “I just talked with . . .”

  A bustle of activity in the reception area outside distracted him.

  “She’ll see me, dammit!” a voice called out.

  An urgent knock on the door.

  “Come,” Beechum said.

  The door swung open and a Marine Corps major stepped in with a Beretta 92F in his hand.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” the marine said in a somewhat confused tone. “I know this sounds crazy, but the Department of Homeland Security is here with a man they have arrested. He claims to have critical, time-sensitive information about this investigation, but he’ll only give it to you.”

  Beechum looked to the FEMA director and then at two Secret Service agents.

  “My name is Jeremy Waller!” a voice called out. “Tell her my name is Jeremy Waller!”

  “DOMESTIC?” HAVELOCK SAID. “What about all the Arab claims of responsibility?”

  The president read from the FBI communication. It offered details in Bureau-speak, a language Venable was just beginning to understand.

  “This says a domestic white supremacist group called the Phineas Priesthood used Muslim terrorists as a cover. This is a domestic operation intended to start a war between Christianity and Islam.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Havelock bellowed. “Is this the same FBI that told me just hours ago that they had concrete ties between Prince Abdullah and radical cells inside this country?”

  “Staged,” the president read. “Analysts now believe these Phineas priests were trying to incite some kind of battle of the Apocalypse. Armageddon.”

  Oshinski put down the black book. Chase shook her head in dismay. Havelock rubbed his forehead, trying to make sense of a week that defied sensibility.

  “Should I terminate the flight, sir?” the flight officer asked. His job included much more important tasks than buckling VIP seat belts.

  Venable barely hesitated.

  “Not on your life,” he said. “This is the opinion of the FBI—the same FBI that has told me precisely nothing of value since the first bombing. If they think I’m going to risk national security based on some wild conspiracy theory about secret society priests, they’re crazy.”

  President David Ray Venable pointed to the football.

  “Pull out the launch codes,” the commander in chief ordered. “The mission stands.”

  COLONEL ELLIS WATCHED as the massive blue-and-white plane turned right from the taxiway onto the main runway and began to gather speed. He knew that his timing would have to be flawless. He’d have just seconds between the time Kneecap lifted off and the point at which the airborne command post passed out of range. The best point to shoot would be at the seat of its rotation from level flight to vertical assent.

  “‘Blessed are the peacemakers,’” he whispered to himself, kneeling behind the ungainly bench rest, “‘for they shall be called the Sons of God.’”

  He was completely exposed now—a warm body in a field of snow—but that hardly mattered. It was too late for anyone to stop him. All he had to do was hit one engine at that critical point in full-power takeoff. His rifle magazine held ten rounds; he’d made tough shots before.

  Hold . . . hold . . . hold . . . , he cautioned himself, laying his finger on the trigger. Air Force One came directly at him, the distinctive nose cone growing larger in his rifle scope.

  Just one hit, he told himself. Just one bullet to save the chosen.

  “WHAT IN HELL is going on here?” the vice president demanded.

  Jeremy was led into her office in shackles. Blood seeped from the pressure dressing on his leg. His clothing was torn and soiled. Dried gore clung to his face and hair.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the DHS agent apologized, “but he said . . .”

  “I said I need to talk with you in private, Madam Vice President,” Jeremy insisted. “We have no time to argue about this. I have information of critical national security importance. Extremely close hold. Your eyes only.”

  Beechum tried not to show that she recognized this man. It was outrageous that he had come—a direct violation of rules he had agreed to when they first met in Jordan Mitchell’s office.

  “Leave us,” she ordered the others. “All of you.”

  “But ma’am . . . ,” the Secret Service agent objected.

  “Leave us!” she demanded. She had the authority, and they had no choice but to comply.

  “You have no right to come here,” the vice president said when they were alone. “You know that.”

  “I know about the Megiddo project,” he blurted out. There was no time for arguing rules and decorum in a world that no longer seemed to recognize either. “I have identified Jafar al Tayar.”

  Beechum froze. Was it possible? she asked herself. Could this lowly FBI agent really have uncovered a secret that had been buried to the highest reaches of government for more than two decades?

  “W-w-what?” she stammered. “What . . . who . . . ?”

  “It’s the president,” Jeremy announced. He didn’t care who heard. “He’s going to use these terrorist attacks as justification to strike targets in Saudi Arabia, hoping to start a war with Islam. You have to stop him.”

  Beechum stood up from her chair. The look of apprehension suddenly disappeared from her face and gave way to a wry, ironic smile.

  “You’ve lost a lot of blood, Agent Waller,” she said. “I think you’re getting delirious.”

  “MY GOD, IT’S not stopping.” Sirad gasped as the Doomsday Plane rolled down the runway. Air force security camera video played the whole thing out on one of five main-console television screens.

  “Did you really think he would?” Mitchell asked. If he felt any apprehension, he surely didn’t show it.

  “But what if . . .”

  “Sirad.” Mitchell stopped her. “Do you think I would have left a moment like this to the whims of a politician?”

  The Borders Atlantic CEO picked up a channel changer and clicked away from the CNN broadcast of Capitol Hill carnage to an eerie scene on another channel—a broadcast that looked grainy black and white, like something from a closed-circuit camera. Everyone in the room noticed a small black figure—human—walking toward a stationary object of the same color.

  “What’s that, some kind of infrared imagery?” Sirad asked.

  “That’s death,” he said, crossing his arms. “People call her GI Jane.”

  THE ROAR OF jet engines covered the CIA Special Acti
vities Staff officer’s final steps through the crusty snow. She moved fast toward the target as her mission planner in New York relayed GPS coordinates through a Quantis cell phone. The target knelt just ten yards in front of her, deeply focused on a shot of his own.

  BOOM!

  The unmerciful Barrett .50 caliber erupted, stunning her for half a breath with its report.

  BOOM!

  Fire leaped out the rifle’s barrel as Kneecap’s nose pointed skyward and began to climb.

  BOOM!

  The last shot sounded effete, more a pop than a concussion.

  But the effect was unmistakable. GI Jane’s .45 caliber pistol coughed just once, toppling Ellis right where Jordan Mitchell’s satellites and their infrared sensors had discovered him.

  “‘And the seventh angel poured out his vial into the air; and there came a great voice out of the temple of heaven, from the throne, saying, It is done!’” she said. GI Jane had never considered herself a religious person, but the epitaph seemed fitting. He was a warrior, after all. She felt she owed him that.

  The mysterious butterfly expert trudged off through the snow as Air Force One disappeared above her in the violent moan of a vertical takeoff. She had other work to do.

  “WE’RE READY, MR.PRESIDENT,” General Oshinski confirmed, once Air Force One had leveled off. He held the football’s Quantis phone to his ear. An O-6 on the other end stood ready to launch nuclear-tipped cruise missiles from the USS Intrepid traveling 110 miles off the southern tip of Yemen.

  “David, I want to try one last time to get you to reconsider,” his chief of staff pleaded. She was first and foremost a policy advisor, but sometimes a woman’s lack of testosterone facilitated reason beyond logic. “What if that FBI report is accurate?”

  “Launch,” the president ordered. The blood of righteous vengeance had reddened his face, but there was a look of apprehension, too.