Carver revealed nothing in his expression. “Go on.”
She switched on her phone and showed Carver a satellite image of a farming area on West Virginia’s eastern border with Maryland. “See that mountain?” she said, pointing to a digital GPS marker she’d placed there. “Last night my helicopter was hovering right over this area, where Rapture Run is supposedly located.”
“I’m still listening” Carver said as he memorized the longitude and latitude.
“Two years ago, Congressman Bailey presented a bill that would protect this area as a wildlife preserve.”
“That must happen all the time,” Carver said, although his mind was racing with possibilities. He already knew that Congressman Bailey was connected to both Lieutenant Flynn and SECDEF Jackson.
“Not like this,” Eva said. “I just pulled up Congressman Bailey’s bill. It had a rider that contracted Ulysses to completely seal off the wildlife preserve with a massive fence. We’re talking a border fence. Like the one we’re building between us and Mexico.”
“Typical pork barrel spending,” Carver said dismissively, although he knew better.
“This is different. Rapture Run was built without the knowledge of the Security Council. I can’t even say for sure if the President knew. Yet Congressman Bailey and obviously someone high up in Ulysses knew that a military installation was going to be built there.”
“And then Bailey turns up dead,” Carver said, deciding to give Eva some validation. He wasn’t about to tell Eva about Lieutenant Flynn and the missing Stingers. Not yet, anyhow. Until he could speak to Speers, or the President, it was way too early to trust anyone.
Rapture Run Cafeteria
Deep beneath the cornfield that masked the bunker’s very existence, the Rapture Run cafeteria operated as if it had always been there, with eight cooks standing behind a counter and a lunchroom that could seat a hundred at a time. Speers grabbed a tray, but he wasn’t here to eat. He was here for information. He inserted himself into line next to Corporal Hammond, who was managing two trays of food. “So,” Speers said. “How long you think we can stay down here before Wainewright starts eating the enlisted men?”
Corporal Hammond eyed the gut that hung over Speers’ belt. “I’d say we’ve got more to fear from you than him.”
A dozen servicemen stood in the chow line on either side of them, each shuffling along with assembly-line precision. Speers and Hammond first came to a pile of egg salad that looked positively regurgitated. Speers covered his mouth to avoid taking in the odor.
“Guess you never had to eat in a mess hall,” Corporal Hammond said.
“Once. I went with the President to Camp Pendleton on a campaign stop. We ate with the Marines.”
Hammond smirked. “Didn’t I see that on TV?”
“Oh I’m sure every conservative in America saw the President puke on the base commander. In slow-motion, no less.”
Hammond put a double helping of the egg salad on one of the trays. “The General loves this stuff,” he said.
“So,” Speers said, feeling a bit of camaraderie build between him and the Corporal, “Is the Joint Chief’s office a good career stop?”
“Big time,” Hammond said. “Plus, it beats combat. I like my arms, fingers, legs. I like to keep ‘em attached to my body.”
The first cook looked at Hammond and said, “Tofurkey or Soy burger?” Hammond took both and advanced in line. Speers rapped his fist on the aluminum surface and said, “Hit me.”
He caught up with Hammond, who was waiting for sweet potatoes. He edged close to him. “Y’know, I’ve been with the President since he was Governor.”
“It’s gotta hurt,” Hammond said.
“General Wainewright seems to be taking it well, don’t you think?”
Hammond kept his gaze on the food in front of him as he neared the salad. “The General can’t afford to get emotional. He’s just doing his job.”
“We both know he’s doing a little more than just his job.”
“Make time, Corporal!” the cook scolded. Hammond took two of the little Caesar salads and bolted for the dessert area. Speers kept on his heels, his tie brushing the pair of chevrons on the Corporal’s sleeve.
“I like you,” Speers lied, “so I’m going to give you a chance to save your ass.”
Hammond turned around and peered up at the Chief. “Look around. I’d say you’re the one in hostile territory.”
The cafeteria was full of armed Ulysses soldiers and yes, they all seemed to be watching. But Speers was undeterred. He leaned in close and whispered into Hammond’s ear. “You all can’t stay down here forever. And when you come up for air, Wainewright won’t be able to save you from the CIA. Fact is, he’ll probably sell you out just to save himself.”
“They wouldn’t be interested in me.”
“They’ll be interested in everyone involved in the conspiracy to assassinate the President and commit treason. Both offenses are punishable by death.” Speers grabbed Hammond’s right arm and squeezed it hard. “I don’t think they’ll have trouble finding a vein.”
The Corporal broke free from the Chief’s grip. His hands shook as he lifted the two trays and looked for the exit.
Fort Campbell Intel Lab
1:40 p.m.
Agent Carver stormed into the lab cubicles where Nico sat at a computer wearing headphones as he sifted through mountains of intercepted Muskogee audio files. He was going to shoot the person who had given Nico unsupervised access to a computer. Nico saw him coming. He took his headphones off. “What’s up, Spook?”
“Hacked into my pension yet?”
“I’ll make a nice deposit if you can get me a Presidential pardon.”
“If you’ve gotta use a restroom, do it now,” Carver said. “I’ve requisitioned a plane.” The truth was that he had forged a travel authorization in Eva Hudson’s name. The Treasury Secretary had turned Fort Campbell upside down so quickly that people were willing to believe anything you told them. “We’re going to Norman, Oklahoma.”
“What for?”
“Professor Emeritus Hitchiti. The last living Muskogee speaker.”
“He’s still alive?”
Carver smiled. “Still kicking at ninety-six. He doesn’t teach regular classes anymore, but he had nine private students last semester. All from out of state.”
Baltimore
2:15 p.m.
Angie Jackson sat slumped against the living room wall. Her hands were still duck-taped behind her. One of Elvir’s associates — a thick-bellied goon with low-rise jeans that left half of his rear end showing — sat on the carpet beside her, cradling a 9mm while watching the never-ending crisis coverage on TV. Between commercials, Angie could hear the residents of the apartment next door screaming at each other in Spanish.
The Market Report was on TV. The anchor rested her chin on her thumb and forefinger, gazing into the market analyst’s eyes. “What advice do you have for people who are afraid? We’re hearing from a lot of people who are of the mind that they should cash out while they still can.”
The analyst: “It’s never smart to panic. If you think you’re in for a fall, it’s much better to simply move your money into new opportunities in the market. Historically, you look at World War Two, even 9/11, the people who put their money into high tech, aircraft manufacturers, defense contractors, by and large, they did very well.”
The anchor was momentarily distracted. Someone was obviously speaking into her earpiece. Her face turned serious as she turned to face the cameras. The animated red/white/blue logo for A Day of Terror: America Mourns swept onscreen. The anchor seemed genuinely stunned as she announced to the country, for the first time, “Government officials have just confirmed rumors that the Vice President has succumbed to his wounds.”