“I like riots even less. The way I figure this, I can either demonstrate that your actions are not condoned by the United States government, or a lot more people end up dead.”
The mob kept their distance, but they began screaming out for vengeance. It was the first time Carver had ever seen the Sergeant scared. “Sir? What are you going to do?”
“You once told me you ran a 4.4 fifty yard dash,” Carver said. “For your sake, I hope you were telling the truth.”
He left the Sergeant unarmed on the sidewalk and climbed back into the lead Hummer. Private Scott reluctantly stepped on the gas.
Over West Virginia
5:55 a.m.
The Blackhawk chopper Major Dobbs had appropriated at Rapture Run enjoyed clear morning skies as it clipped along at 2200 feet. With all commercial air travel grounded, they had the skies to themselves. But Dobbs wasn’t aboard to enjoy the view. From his seat behind the pilot, Dobbs eyed the instrument panel and saw that the directional was pointing northeast.
Speers’ knuckles were bone white as he gripped an exposed piece of the chopper’s frame. The Chief of Staff’s only other helicopter flights had been with President Hatch aboard Marine One. It was like going from a luxury cruise ship to a jet ski.
“Mister Speers,” Major Dobbs said suddenly, “I’m about to give the pilot the details of our itinerary. Please pay close attention.”
Speers looked to Dobbs just in time to see him leveling his.45 automatic at the base of the pilot’s neck.
Speers shouted “No!” at the exact instant that Dobbs pulled the trigger. The bullet entered the pilot’s cerebellum and exited his left eye socket and ricocheted off the chopper’s steel framing. Multi-colored giblets of brain, bone and blood splattered across the front glass.
The old Julian Speers would have hyperventilated or thrown up. Now, after all he had seen in the past two days, his primary instinct was merely to stay alive. He immediately overcame the shock of the Lieutenant’s sudden execution as the pilotless chopper began to pitch slightly. He looked around the cabin in hopes of spotting a parachute.
Dobbs, however, had no plans to bail out. He had started his career thirty years earlier as a helicopter pilot, had flown combat missions in a Huey attack chopper during the invasion of Grenada, and despite moving into an administrative role in CENTAF’s air traffic command, he had still managed to log a few dozen flying hours each year. Now he learned forward from the back seat and took the chopper’s control stick in one hand. Then he half-climbed onto the dead pilot’s lap, unfastened the corpse’s safety harness and pushed the body against the door. The pilot’s dead weight carried itself out. Dobbs resisted the urge to watch the body fall to earth.
He could hardly see out the windscreen. “Gimmie your tie,” Dobbs said. Speers untied his half-Windsor and handed it to the Major, who used it to wipe the pilot’s spatter from the glass.
“Okay there, Chief?” Dobbs said.
Speers found his voice. “I’d like to know why you’re helping me.”
“Rapture Run was starting to feel a lot like Jonestown,” Dobbs replied. “And if there’s two things I can’t stomach, it’s murdered congressmen and poisoned Kool-Aid.” Speers couldn’t argue with that. “Our pilot was circling back to Rapture Run,” Dobbs went on. “We’re officially AWOL during martial law, and that makes us targets, Chief. I am prepared to kill any treasonous, Ulysses-loving SOBs that get in our way.”
The Major pushed the stick forward. The chopper descended toward the tree line. Speers drummed his fingers nervously on his legs.
“Now then,” Dobbs said. “We’ve gone to a lot of trouble so that you could make a phone call. I think it’s time you make it.”
Speers pulled the phone out of his pocket, powered it up and found Eva Hudson’s mobile number in his contact list.
Fort Campbell
The Federal Reserve Chairman’s head looked enormous on Eva’s monitor. His 72-year-old chrome dome twittered ever so slightly as he jawed at length about the financial implications of the crisis. “I hope you can convince the President to act on this pronto,” the Chairman yelped over video chat. “His predecessor was granted certain emergency powers that he shouldn’t be shy about using.”
She didn’t have the stomach to tell the Chairman that she hadn’t spoken to the President since the church bombing in Monroe, and that she didn’t know a soul who had. “I’ll do my best, Mister Chairman.”
Colonel Madsen abruptly opened Eva’s office door. “Chief of Staff Julian Speers is on line one.”
Eva didn’t have to be told twice. “Mister Chairman, I apologize. Call you back.” She cut the video feed and picked up the phone. “Julian?”
“Eva, it’s good to hear your voice.”
It was good to hear Julian’s voice too. But there was only one thing on Eva’s mind. “Is the President with you?” she said. “He hasn’t returned my calls.” Eva heard a familiar whirring in the background. “Chief? I hear rotors. Are you on Marine One?”
“Eva,” Speers began with a foreboding tone, “This isn’t easy for me to say…” Speers choked up, unable to speak.
So it was true. Eva had suspected as much from the moment she saw the emergency tape. She felt the tears coming, but she couldn’t let herself go there. She resolved to hold herself together. There was no time for grieving. Not now. There was a leadership vacuum. She had to find out the details and act on them. “How did it happen?” Eva said.
Speers relayed the story that Major Dobbs had told him, and then offered his speculation that Marine One’s flight plan randomizer had been rigged ahead of time. It was the only theory that made sense. The signal dropped before Eva could respond.
She took out the bottle of Ativan. She took the other half of the pill she had ingested earlier and calmly swallowed it.
Eva sat for a moment, absorbing what she had heard. Not a surprise. But a blow nevertheless. The biggest blow.
She looked at the Ativan bottle. Taking it had been a mistake, she decided. She needed a clear head. The fog might numb the pain a little, but it wouldn’t fix anything.
Eva pulled the wastebasket close to her, leaned over it, and stuck her right index finger down her throat. Her gag reflex kicked in immediately. The anti-anxiety pill and what remained of last night’s dinner came out with force, filling the bottom two inches of the trash can.
She sat up, reached calmly for a Kleenex and wiped the corners of her mouth. Then she dropped the rest of the pills in the garbage. There would be no more crutches today.
Baltimore
Four short minutes after Carver had left the unarmed Sergeant Hundley as a sacrifice to the city’s vengeful looters, the Viper Squad convoy pulled within two blocks of the Hamilton Arms. A figure in jogging shorts and a blue hoodie emerged from a parked car and approached the lead Humvee. Carver rolled down his window.
“Nobody’s been in or out since three a.m.,” the man said. He was CIA case officer Celon Wise. Carver had only last night picked Wise out of a CIA directory in hopes of finding someone local to stake out the Hamilton Arms. To Carver’s surprise, Wise was better than just local. He had a high school acquaintance that was a super in the building next door, so he had been able to set up an observation post without any problems.
Wise pulled the hood back, revealing the speckled charcoal complexion and left-veering nose that Carver recognized from his agency profile photo. “Tin foil’s on the back windows,” he went on. “I counted four people in the thermal goggles.”
“Any weapons?”
“The three men have assault rifles. But they’ve got a lady in there with ‘em. Pretty sure she’s not there by choice.”
Carver switched on his radio. “All units, we have a possible hostage situation. Use discretion.”
Sergeant Hundley’s second-in-command responded from the second Hummer. “Interrogative, Agent Carver: what is the definition of discretion?”