ABOUT TEN MINUTES LATER. THE WHITE HOUSE. WASHINGTON. DC. 11:26 A.M. EST. WEDNESDAY. NOVEMBER 6.
The only sound was Pendano’s labored breathing, and Graham Weisbrod saying, “Easy, easy, easy,” as he sat on the floor, cross-legged, holding his old student’s head in his hands. Scott Jevons cut Pendano’s shirt and pants away, finding the small wound in the front and the big one in the back, trying to find a way to stop the terrible flow of blood.
“Prof?”
“Yes, Roger.”
“I don’t feel good.”
“You’re hurt. We’re taking care of you.”
“It hurts.” Pendano’s body went limp.
The old professor and the young Secret Service agent were still sitting silently with the dead man when a voice from downstairs proclaimed, “This is Major Block, commanding the National Unity Guard. Surrender the former president or—”
“He’s dead,” Graham said loudly. “One of those rounds you were firing up through the floor got him. We won’t shoot if you come up.”
The National Unity Guard did not look military or even at all professional, to Graham’s eye, but there were certainly a lot of them; probably Shaunsen had promised them all good pay and fast promotions. Probably hired more of them from the crowd they swept up during the riots—that would be Shaunsen, all over.
After a while, Shaunsen came in, squeezing through his guards, with several young aides in tow. The Acting President looked hard, once, at the body.
Then he told the NUG behind him, “Get the Chief Justice over here, right now. And Kowalski, too. And a doctor to confirm the death.”
Weisbrod said, “Sir, this is a crime scene. We don’t even know officially who fired the shot, or on whose orders, or—”
“That’ll be enough, Weisbrod. I’m going to fire you right after the swearing-in. Meanwhile, you might as well come along and be in your last Cabinet picture. Make any trouble, though, and you’re going straight to jail.”
They hauled Weisbrod to his feet. His shoes, socks, and trouser legs were soaked with the dead president’s blood, and he could still feel the warmth of Roger Pendano’s head where he had cradled it on his thigh.
Shaunsen was bellowing orders to go get the Chief Justice, go get the Speaker, wasn’t there a lawyer in the house who could swear him in, or did it have to be a judge? No matter, get him a damn judge this minute.
Weisbrod let them cuff him and hustle him awkwardly down the stairs and into a chair in the Secret Service break room, with a dozen or so captured Secret Service. They weren’t allowed to talk. He lost himself in trying to trace the patterns in the carpet.
He heard a great deal of running and whispering in the corridors, and occasional shouting, but he didn’t bother to sort out any words. Eventually six NUGs came in and let the Secret Service and Weisbrod have some water, and uncuffed each in turn long enough to go to the bathroom; the light from the windows suggested it was late afternoon, and his growling stomach agreed. This is probably not the time to ask for a sandwich, all the same. Weisbrod thought about how many reasons Shaunsen might have to keep him alive and came up with zero. Probably they’ll wait till dark, but maybe not even that long.
ABOUT THREE HOURS LATER. THE WHITE HOUSE. WASHINGTON. DC. 4:47 P.M. EST. WEDNESDAY. NOVEMBER 6.
Weisbrod started awake. He had no idea how he had fallen asleep. The NUG who had kicked his leg to wake him also gave him a drink and uncuffed him to piss, then recuffed him and led him down the hall and into the Oval Office. The Secretaries of State, Defense, and Treasury were bunched together in the corner, all looking embarrassed. The Attorney General stood apart from the others not meeting anyone’s eye. Chief Justice Lopez was quarreling loudly with three presidential aides, and it wasn’t clear whether she was a guest or a prisoner, but it was very clear that she thought she had been tricked into being there. There were more National Unity Guards than he could easily count.
Shaunsen looked around the room with a satisfied smile. “Now,” he said, “first of all, let’s establish that the President of the United States is dead. Dr. Brunner?”
The woman who stepped forward was small and square-built, with white hair and deep lines on her face. She shrugged as she read a statement out loud that she had examined the body, determined that it was Roger Pendano, and determined that he was indeed dead, the cause of death being a gunshot wound through the lower abdomen which had, among other things, torn the abdominal aorta, leading to an uncontrollable hemorrhage and death from loss of blood.
“Good,” Shaunsen said, “Now according to Amendment Twenty-five, U.S. Constitution, as well as Article II, and the Succession Act of 1947—”
“Everybody down.”
Graham knew instantly by the authority in the voice. Handcuffed, all he could do was fall over on his side. He caught a glimpse of a man leaping over him. The White House echoed with gunfire and low whumps and thuds that Weisbrod assumed must be some other weapon; from Weisbrod’s perspective, the Oval Office filled up with the boots and camo pant legs of a swarm of soldiers.
Whatever was going on in the rest of the White House, it sounded like it was happening pretty fast. The National Unity Guard were mostly street-kid activists and Democratic Party organizers deputized and given guns, probably their most seasoned fighters were some old gangbangers. It took more than a hundred of them to overrun about twenty Secret Service, Weisbrod calculated, and they had surprise and the Acting President on their side. They’re no match for these professionals—wonder where we got them?
“Your attention please,” a voice said. Everyone turned and stared at Speaker Kowalski, who stood in the doorway with Will Norcross. As Kowalski and Norcross came in, Heather O’Grainne popped out to flank them on one side and Cameron Nguyen-Peters on the other.
“As of 3:38 P.M. today,” Kowalski said, “Acting President Peter Shaunsen is under impeachment by a unanimous vote of the House of Representatives. I have a copy of the bill of impeachment with me to present to Chief Justice Lopez. And since both law and the Constitution prohibit anyone under impeachment from succeeding to the office of the President, he is not and cannot be the President.”
Will Norcross looked more like a confused junior clerk than ever; his voice was soft but firm. “Furthermore, as of 4:12 P.M. this afternoon, I have been elected President Pro Tempore of the Senate, and at the request and direction of the NCCC, acting under Directive 51 to locate and emplace the succeeding president of the United States—”
“If I have to,” Shaunsen said, “I will tie the whole government in knots for the next hundred years. I was not under impeachment at the time of the President’s death, I was still Acting President and had not resigned my position as Senate President Pro Tempore—”
Lopez cleared her throat. Her expression was surprisingly gentle but left no room for questioning, like a mother saying absolutely not to a recalcitrant child. “If I have anything to do with it, every case you bring will be dismissed out of hand and at once. As for grounds, you may refer to such doctrines as paramount national survival and the phrases ‘If the President is suspected’ to be found in Madison’s notes on impeachment. Less officially, the game is over.”