Captive-in-Chief Page 13

  Clay answered a few more questions with regard to the cartels until the question he had been anticipating and worrying about finally came up.

  “What about the detainees? Over 13,000 black citizens are being held in camps.”

  Clay needn’t have worried, he was on a roll.

  “Last night we had over fifty cities under siege from rioters, hundreds of thousands of people were on the streets. The vast majority wanted to voice, as is their right, their upset at the day’s events. Nobody, I repeat nobody who was peacefully protesting was detained. Only those instigating or taking part in violent protests were detained. Every FPS officer wears a body camera, footage of every detainee has been checked and verified to ensure only those as stated involved or instigating violence have been detained. Anybody detained without sufficient evidence of violent behavior has already been released. We’re working with the ACLU to ensure all those detained meet the criteria we have set. Anybody who does not meet that criteria will be released. So far, the FPS officers have proved themselves exceedingly effective in ensuring they have only detained the core troublemakers.”

  “Who are the FPS?”

  “I believe FEMA will be going through this with you today in great detail, but in general the average FPS officer is a highly trained former US military veteran, with enhanced law enforcement and crowd control training. Their main function will be to assist in natural disasters and major events to augment local law enforcement when required. Before anyone asks, last night’s events were not why they were created.”

  “Do you have any news on the police officer who killed the three students in—”

  Before the question could be finished, ten Secret Service Agents rushed into the room. Clay looked utterly bemused when Mike Laing, his lead agent, grabbed him and with three other agents physically removed him from the room at a run.

  “What the—”

  “We’re getting you out of Washington, sir!” Mike said as the floor around them shook and the heavily armored and bulletproof windows of the White House rattled wildly. A deafening boom ended any protest from Clay.

  Chapter 34

  With a body full of painkillers and enough caffeine in his system to stay awake for a week, it was a different Joe Kelly that disembarked at Union Station in Washington, D.C. It had taken over forty hours, nearly two days, and for nearly half that time he hadn’t had a drink. For the first time in years he had a purpose to his life, someone was relying on him. Actually more than someone, Clara was relying on him. As much as Clay Caldwell needed his friend, it was Clara who needed Joe more. The tears of the young girl had affected him more than any human being had in many years.

  He was ashamed of his behavior, ashamed of how he had spoken to a young girl showing him nothing other than kindness and goodwill. He had sought her out and as much as he tried to apologize, the fright in her eyes never went away. Sandy had melted her heart, and within minutes the little girl’s tears and fear were replaced with smiles and giggles as Sandy frolicked with her in the waiting area. Looks of anger and derision from the other passengers soon broke as they too enjoyed watching the young girl play with the exceptionally attentive dog. Sandy read people as well as any person he had ever met. She knew exactly how to interact with different ages and personalities, knowing her actions would in some way make up for Joe’s behavior.

  A final hug for Sandy from the little girl at Union Station and a smile towards Joe was all the confirmation he needed to know he was ready. It wasn’t going to be easy. His hand was shaking in his pocket, his legs felt like jelly, and his headache was chemically restrained only for as long as the painkillers would allow. With her service vest on, there was nowhere they couldn’t go. Joe strode out into the heart of the nation’s capital, his dog at his side, and with a belief in himself he hadn’t felt in a long time.

  Two minutes later, he lay in the gutter, blood pouring from a gaping wound. America was about to be rocked to its very core.

  ***

  Elsa waited impatiently. One phone call and the operation was a go. Finally her spotter called. The motorcade was moving; it was time. The Saudi students were already loaded, high on some concoction that made them compliant to the point of brain dead. They smiled inanely, unable to move due to strapping that secured them to their seats.

  Elsa made a final check and fired up the engine. Thirteen liters and 505 horsepower roared to life. The large windows of the Mack refuse truck allowed for perfect visibility of the occupants. Elsa guided the 35 foot, 40,000 lb truck out of the yard and onto the road. Her route, like earlier that morning, would be slightly circuitous to ensure maximum visibility of the Saudi students on their journey. Dressed in their traditional thawbs with headdresses, they were certainly unexpected occupants in the refuse truck. Elsa guided the truck past as many cameras as possible to ensure the occupants were once again recorded for posterity and what was certain to be one of the most comprehensive investigations in the history of the United States.

  The phone buzzed next to her with a text. She checked the screen: Arrived. It was all she needed to know. She guided the truck towards 2nd Street, SE and headed north. She spotted the Library of Congress to her left. She had practiced the route many times over the previous few months. She slowed. The lights had changed to red ahead, and she wanted to hit them on green. As important as it was for the occupants to be visible, it was not the time to be stopped anywhere near there.

  She sped up as the light ahead changed, swinging the metal behemoth 90 degrees onto East Capitol Street, NE. The target lay directly ahead. She locked the steering wheel in place and set the throttle to full power. The 505 horsepower drove the wheels into the road and powered the 40,000 lbs of solid metal onwards. Elsa watched the TV screen as the camera that allowed her to remotely control the truck zoomed in on the target. There was nothing left for her to do. A GPS device would initiate the explosion as soon as the truck hit the target, or failing that, as soon as it stopped.

  The truck powered across First Street, NE and hit the metal bollards that were designed to stop cars in their tracks. The 40,000 lbs of metal travelling at 50 mph powered through them with ease; its solid metal fender was v-shaped to assist its path. The long, wide walkway to the iconic and impressive east front steps of the US Capitol and its world famous dome lay directly ahead. Only 200 yards. At 45mph, the bollards had cost them 5 mph, less than predicted; it would take nine seconds to reach the steps.

  Elsa flinched as the first bullets ricocheted off of the bulletproof glass. The small caliber rifle fire was useless against the glass that would stop anything up to 7.62 mm fired at point blank range. The engine was encased in metal housing that would stop anything up to a .50 caliber bullet. The truck powered on relentlessly. The next obvious target, the tires, were runflat Hutchinson military grade replacements, which ensured tire shots did no better than slowing the truck marginally. The first rooftop sniper bullet hit three seconds after the truck had cleared the bollards. The 0.50 caliber bullet tore through the bulletproof glass and obliterated the head of what was assumed to be the driver. All four Saudis met the same fate as the truck powered relentlessly on. Twelve seconds in, and travelling at a respectable twenty-five miles per hour, the truck mounted the staircase, continuing on its path until it finally lost forward momentum. It was three feet short of its GPS target, which, as it ground to a halt, became irrelevant.

  With both Houses sitting and the vice president leading the Senate in confirming replacements for the president’s key advisors, the bomb detonated. The Secret Service and Capitol Police had had twelve seconds’ warning to save as many of those under their protection as possible. The vice president hadn’t even been extracted from the Senate floor when the bomb detonated.

  ***

  Joe had walked out of the station and spotted the park ahead, deciding to give Sandy a well-earned and much needed run. A walk down Delaware Avenue through the Lower Senate Park was exactly what they both needed. The sight ahead of the US Capitol
Building exuded a power and confidence that made Joe feel invigorated at the task ahead. He was back, he was Joe Francis Kelly, and his promises meant something.

  The first sign something was wrong was the sound of metal cracking against metal. Within a second, gunfire had erupted. Panicked gunfire. Joe raced towards the sound. He was a Marine, it was what he did. He ran towards trouble, not away from it. Sandy followed after him, it’s what she did.

  They reached Constitution Avenue at the end of Delaware when the explosion happened. Over three hundred yards away and with the Senate wing of the Capitol Building in front of him to soak up the blast, it still sent him hurtling backwards through the air. He rolled and slammed into the curbside, Sandy landing a few feet to his right. She whimpered loudly, crumpled against the concrete. He rushed to her side as rocks and debris rained down all around them. A cloud of dust had reduced visibility dramatically. His back took two hits from what he could only guess were large bricks as he protected himself and Sandy. She was covered by blood, he searched desperately for the source. while Sandy, whimpering loudly, licked wildly at his face. He searched her in the increasingly reducing visibility. He hadn’t even noticed he couldn’t hear a thing. The silence all around as chaos reigned was deafening.

  Chapter 35

  “Stop!” Clay commanded as the Secret Service agents rushed him towards an exit.

  When they ignored him, he planted his feet and fought against their forward motion, throwing one of them aside.

  “I’m not leaving the White House. Where was the explosion?”

  Mike paused, debating what to do next. His job, his only job, was to protect the president. “I’m sorry, Sir, the Capitol has been destroyed. Protocol dictates I get you as far away from danger as possible. One and a half miles is not my idea of far away.”

  “Mike, let me make this crystal clear, I am not leaving Washington, I don’t care what your protocol dictates, I’m staying here.”

  “The least we can do is PEOC,” Mike said to his colleagues.

  Clay raised his hand. “I’m going to the Situation Room, I am not going underground!”

  Clay brushed the lapel on his suit down and walked calmly and quickly towards the Situation Room. The nation was going to be hurting and they needed somebody in charge.

  He walked into the Watch Room located next to the Situation Room. The team of analysts that manned the room 24 hours a day, 365 days of the year, were rushing from desk to desk.

  All stopped in their tracks when their Commander-in-Chief entered the room.

  “All I know is there has been an explosion at the Capitol,” Clay said. “Whatever this is, we will prevail, we will fight back, and we will come out of this stronger. Now can somebody bring me up to speed?”

  The watch commander broke off and led Clay through to the Situation Room. “Mr. President, you should brace yourself,” he advised, switching on the TV.

  “Where’s that?” asked Clay, looking at a mountainous pile of rubble. Random mounds of fire were scattered across the debris, and the whole scene was partially obscured by a cloud of dust.

  “That, sir, is the Capitol.”

  Clay fell into his chair, the entire building had collapsed. He had expected some damage, not complete devastation.

  “Oh dear God, did people get out?”

  The watch commander shook his head. “No warning and both Houses were sitting, including the vice president, and we believe eighty-one senators and almost four hundred congressmen and women.”

  “But how? We’re talking a massive building, what the hell kind of bomb does that?”

  “We’re not sure, although definitely not nuclear, we’ve ruled that out already,” said Charles, the National Security Advisor, rushing into the room. The watch commander excused himself.

  “Survivors?”

  “Teams are on scene now. We’ll update you, although it’s not looking good. We’re estimating, with staffers and employees, the number of casualties will be in the thousands.”

  “What about the Supreme Court?” asked Clay. It was only a few hundred yards from the Capitol.

  “Some damage to the building. However the justices are all okay.”

  “I want them in a secure location asap!”

  “We’ve been in touch with the Supreme Court Police and the Secret Service are assisting. It’s happening now.”

  “Who?” He slammed the desk, looking at the pile of rubble that had been the symbol of freedom and democracy the world over.

  “Initial reports and footage of the occupants suggest Islamic fundamentalists.”

  “With a bomb like that?”

  “We believe it was a thermobaric bomb, Mr. President,” the director of the CIA said, entering the room.

  “How the hell did they get their hands on a thermobaric bomb that size?” asked the NSA.

  “The Russians have a bomb called the FOAB, father of all bombs. From initial analysis of footage and the blast radius, we’re confident that’s what caused this.”

  “So this is the Russians?” Clay spat.

  “Not necessarily,” Charles countered. “If you remember back a few months ago, the Russians alerted us to a theft from one of their munitions storage facilities. They asked for our help and we’ve been assisting them in the investigation. If the reports of the occupants being dressed as fundamentalists are true, there is every reason to believe it was Islamists, Mr. President. It is a group affiliated with ISIL that was believed to have stolen the bomb.”

  Over the next few minutes the room filled up with the most powerful men and women in America rushing in to support and protect their president.

  “Mr. President,” said the attorney general, “we are in unprecedented times, the legislative branch of the United States has effectively been destroyed. Without Congress and the Senate, we’re left with serious legal issues. I suggest we enact Directive 51 with immediate effect, which will ensure we can maintain an effective and legitimate—”

  “I’m not rushing into any such action. We don’t know what the situation is at the Capitol, it may be that there are large areas buried in rubble and the structure is sound underneath.”

  Clay’s phone buzzed with a message: Listen to your AG!

  Clay’s head snapped up. Nobody was using a phone. They were listening in to what was happening in the Situation Room. Why he was surprised he didn’t know. After what had taken place over the previous two days, their reach was beyond extraordinary.

  The watch commander entered and passed a note to him: Vice president found dead, no survivors expected from the Senate chamber.

  Clay relayed the news; eighty-one senators and the VP dead.

  With confirmation of the deaths, the enormity of the situation began to take hold. What if it wasn’t Islamic fundamentalists who had driven the bomb into the Capitol? Why would he even think it was? He chastised himself for being so gullible. He was kidding himself if he believed it was Islamic fundamentalists. Obviously it was the conspirators. He couldn’t keep it up, thousands were dead, his country was being plunged into chaos, and all because he was selfishly protecting his family.

  Clay excused himself. He needed time to think, time to consider his next move. He wasn’t going to lead a country being controlled by an outside party.

  He took a seat in his private study and picked up the phone. “Ramona, find the secretary of state for me, please.”

  Two minutes later his phone buzzed.

  “Mr. President.”

  “Ken, thank God you’re okay. Where are you?”

  “Brussels. I’m heading back now, Sir, we’ll be wheels up in two minutes. The Secret Service is insisting I come back as a matter of urgency.”

  “Line of succession, Ken. You’re next in line now.”

  The line went quiet for some time. “That bad, Mr. President?” asked Ken, realizing how many people had to have been killed for him to be next in line.

  “The VP, speaker, and president pro tempore, all gone,” Clay confirme
d. “Are you secure at that end?”

  Clay could hear him asking people to leave the room.

  “We are now, Mr. President.”

  “Come to me when you land. Don’t talk to anyone else, come directly to me.”

  “Of course, Mr. President.”

  Ken was a widower with no children. They would struggle to control Ken the way they had controlled him.

  Clay would resign. It was risky, but once he had resigned, there’d be no benefit in killing Clara or anyone else. Staying in power wasn’t helping anyone, it was ripping his country apart.

  It would take around eight hours for Ken to arrive back from Brussels. The second he was in the White House, Clay would announce the handover with immediate effect. He didn’t care what the people thought or said, he had to do what he thought best. With a renewed sense of purpose, he strode back into the Situation Room. It didn’t take long for his purpose to wane. In every instance, the worst case scenario was playing out. Survivors from the Capitol were few and far between. The list of casualties of tourists and bystanders alone was running into hundreds.

  “Mr. President,” said his chairman of the Joint Chiefs, attracting his attention.

  “Yes?”

  “I believe we should move to DEFCON 2.”

  “Do we believe we’re expecting an imminent attack?”

  “Sir, all I know is that we weren’t expecting the Capitol to be blown up by a Russian bomb.”

  “The Russians haven’t done this,” interrupted Charles. “However, I do agree moving to DEFCON 2 is the right thing to do.”

  “Anyone disagree?”

  Nobody disagreed.

  “Take us to DEFCON 2, Mr. Chairman.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President. We also have a list of targets that you wanted us to prepare for hitting the cartels.”