Captive-in-Chief (7 page)

She was Tess Caldwell, the president’s daughter.

The stewardess threw him a wicked smile as they lifted into the air for the third and final time that day. It was to be their longest leg, St. Louis to San Francisco, over four hours non-stop flying. Though a fresh flight crew had joined the aircraft in St. Louis, the stewardess, Drapsmann noted, had remained.

“I thought they’d have swapped you with the flight crew,” he said, clearly happy they hadn’t.

“I couldn’t let you end the day without a proper sendoff.” She winked, brushing his arm as she delivered his coffee.

“And what’s a proper sendoff?” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was as hard as he had ever been. His exploits throughout the day were exhilarating enough without the stewardess’ innuendo and suggestion. She was seriously sexy.

She bent forward, her shirt dropping, and his eyes drifted down her exposed neckline. She was braless now; it had been there earlier. Her breasts were as perfect as he could have hoped. Her nipples stared back at him.

“You’ll know it when it comes.” She ran her fingernails through his hair and walked away from him, her tight skirt struggling to constrain her.

“Oh dear God,” he whispered, enraptured by her every move.

He had been disappointed when they had landed in St. Louis and nothing had happened between them despite the outrageous flirting that had promised so much. Leaving the plane knowing the crew was changing hadn’t been pleasant, although the promise of a few more kills under his belt had helped.

The three black men had been too easy. Accepting their arrest despite having committed no crime was a surprise. He expected they’d have put up a bit of a struggle. It was only later he had discovered they were honor students with an unblemished past. A bonus, he had thought—all the more shocking for the media to play on. It wasn’t until he had pulled trigger and killed the first student that the men fully understood what was happening to them. The final two had cried like babies; he hated when they didn’t die with dignity, it was so unbecoming of real men.

The stewardess turned to face him, another button on her blouse undone, her cleavage exposed and her breasts struggling to stay within their sheer confines.

“More coffee?” she asked

He took a sip, his eyes transfixed by her. “N-no th-thanks,” he stuttered, surprising himself with his lack of composure. His eyelids snapped closed. He fought against them, but a sudden heaviness overcame him. He had caught her smile; she’d drugged him.

Everything around Drapsmann faded to black

President Caldwell’s mood had darkened after his chat with Bill. The news had broken and as feared, L.A. had exploded into violence. Running battles with protestors and police were breaking out across the city. The buzz of his phone broke his trance. It was just after 3.00 a.m., not a time he expected texts or calls on his cell phone. A knock on his door beat him to his phone.

“Mr. President, we have Tess!” announced the Secret Service agent on duty.

“Thank you,” said Clay, a wave of relief flooding through him. He had been more worried than he even knew himself at how exposed she was at college in L.A.

He reached for his phone. As previously, a message alert from an unknown sender was displayed on the device. He didn’t know how it was possible. He was told he had the most advanced phone money couldn’t buy, unique in its capabilities and existence, one of a kind and costing millions to modify and ensure the world’s most powerful man could speak in secrecy wherever he was in the world at any time.

We’ll let you have Tess this time. Try something like that again and she’ll die.

He read the message in horror. A photo of his daughter was attached showing her being bundled into a US Marine chopper, once again with crosshairs covering the image, proving they were everywhere. Clay steadied himself on his desk, his breathing coming in short gasps. He was hyperventilating. They could do anything they wanted to him, not his family… he couldn’t cope with the thought that he could cause them to be harmed.

He had two jobs, one as a husband and father to look after and protect his family, and the second, thanks to the citizens of the United States of America, to be a president, to preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.

He had never accepted a job to defend the world but he had an obligation and duty as a father to do whatever he could to protect his family. He made a decision.

He looked down at his desk. A map of the US was his favored desk mat. He focused first on LA, where his daughter was in a helicopter on her way to the airport, and much to her chagrin, heading back to D.C. How he was going to explain that, he wasn’t entirely sure. Tess had fought hard to attend Pomona, and her two best friends were there with her. Pulling her out of school and keeping her in D.C. wasn’t going to be easy to justify.

Another knock preceded Bill’s entry.

“Still can’t sleep?” asked Clay.

“Mr. President, apologies for disturbing you again.”

“Come in, Bill, and thank you so much for getting Tess.” Clay pushed his cell into his pocket, out of sight.

“There have been further developments, Sir. As you know, your daughter is safe and inbound to LAX where a jet is on standby to bring her home. However, I thought you should be aware of what has happened at the venue she was rescued from.”

“Venue?”

“Yes, Sir, she was at a concert. Rioters stormed the building and—”

Clay gasped. “She was in the middle of a riot?”

“She’s fine, Sir. Thanks to her Secret Service detail and the Marines, she escaped unharmed. The venue has since caught fire and the loss of life is expected to be significant. A number of people were on the roof and unable to escape the blaze which ripped through the old building with surprising speed. Tess made it out before the fire started.”

“Dear God,” Clay said. Although, as dreadful as the situation was, he had a reason to bring his daughter home.

“We believe Zane Tate and his band are among the dead.”

Clay shrugged; the name meant nothing.

“He’s the lead singer of the most popular band in the world, Sir.”

“Do we have an idea of how many others?”

“It could be over a hundred,” Bill replied.

“Jesus.”

“And the rioters caused this?”

“That’s where it gets a bit sketchy. They stormed the building in numbers, and likely will make up a large portion of the dead. However, the suggestion is that a flare fired to warn off rioters by the Marine chopper that rescued your daughter subsequently ignited the fire.”

“Shit!” said Clay.

Bill nodded gravely. The media were going to go wild with the story.

“Who were the rioters?”

“I don’t understand, Sir.”

“Ethnicity?”

“Black, Sir. Almost entirely black males.”

“Oh dear God. We’re going to be crucified if the Marines did start the fire. Even if they didn’t, it’s going to cause mayhem. Better call the Council in, we need to get ahead of this.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” replied Bill, heading back to the Situation Room.

Alone once again, Clay’s head dropped into his hands, his gaze falling on the map on his desk. L.A. to D.C. was a long way; he wanted his baby girl home. His eye caught New York and his thoughts moved to Clara, his eldest daughter. Only a couple of hundred miles away, but a world apart. His eyes traced the map back to Texas and Corpus Christi.

Where are you Joe? I need you now more than ever
.

Joe toasted the ‘Welcome to Louisiana’ sign with the last swig of his second bottle of bourbon. He looked out into the darkness from the coach, patted Sandy gently, and closed his eyes. Seven hours down, only another thirty-three to go.

The Homeland Security Council list of attendees was a who’s who of the heads of the most powerful agencies in the US. All were fully expecting the situation to escalate and none were surprised at the early morning wake up call. The Situation Room bustled with nervous energy as the assembled group of America’s most powerful men and women awaited their Commander-in-Chief.

“Morning,” the president, walking into the room.

A chorus of “Good morning Mr. President” echoed around the room.

“Bill, will you bring us up to date?” asked Clay, taking his seat and wasting no time.

A deafening silence fell over the room as Bill described in detail the day’s and night’s events so far: The Black Panthers’ website being hacked, their links to Al Qaeda prior to 9/11, the murder and Klan style killing of the mayor and the police officer. Jaws visibly dropped when the details of the execution of the three black students were delivered. Audible gasps followed the latest disclosure of 146 dead in a fire at Fox Pomona, which was being blamed on a Marine flare fired during the rescue of Tess Caldwell. The dead included Zane Tate, who had been physically removed from the chopper prior to its departure after fighting his way onto it.

Eyewitnesses said it had been Tess herself who had demanded his removal, despite ample room for him and many others to have boarded the helicopters sent to save her. At that time, the fire had not yet started.

“We’ve also heard that despite helicopters being nearby, in particular the band’s own helicopter, which would have been able to rescue people from the roof, the airspace was closed due to Tess’s rescue operation. The pilot has already been on air, his interview all the more damning, given he could hardly speak between his tears. And that’s where we are,” Bill concluded to a stunned and silenced audience.

Eyes turned to the president. Nobody knew what to say. A number of the incidents in isolation were serious enough to lead to widespread unrest. The combination of them all in such a short period left no one in the room doubting they were facing the single most difficult period of their administration.

“Firstly,” began Clay, “it was me that requested Tess be brought back to D.C. She was unaware of my request and quite honestly I was not aware that she was not in her student accommodation when I issued the request. My daughter is alive, and for that I am extremely grateful. However, I want to understand what exactly happened on that roof and at that venue, and I will report those findings to the American public. If anyone, and I include my daughter in this, is found responsible and should face charges, so be it. None of us are above the law.”

“Mr. President,” the Secretary of Homeland Security, said, “given we’re aware of the likely trouble spots—Ferguson, Atlanta, and L.A.— would it be appropriate for us to get FEMA in there ahead of any further trouble?”

The Secretary of Homeland Security turned to his subordinate and fellow member of the Homeland Security Council, the Administrator of the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) who took over talking.

“Obviously, we’ll need to get the governors on board and get them to request our help, but we have significant capabilities within FEMA that could help local authorities if rioting were to break out. Additionally any clean-up operation.”

“Yes, yes,” Clay agreed. “I’m all for getting ahead of the curve on this one. Riot control though?”

“We’ve a number of options available to us, area denial being the most effective.”

“Area denial?”

“We blockade the area where the rioters are likely to want to go and stop them before they start. Concrete barriers that we use for floods can be utilized. We’ve run a few trials and to date, they’ve been extremely effective. Give me the word and I’ll get them moving.”

“I can’t see why not. Anyone?” asked Clay, looking around the table. “Okay, I’ll get the governors to ask for the help,” he said when no one objected. “Any other ideas?”

Voices erupted around the table, though none offered any other suggestions to stop the problem from happening, only how to deal with it after it started. With the Posse Comitatus Act ruling out US forces from taking to the streets, the Secretary of Defense and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff could do nothing more than offer their moral support. The FBI offered to have all staff on active duty, ready to help and respond where necessary. However, ultimately the responsibility for controlling the situation was going to fall on local law enforcement.

“So other than FEMA in the three hot spots and the FBI on full readiness, anything else we can do?” asked Clay.

Shakes of the head around the table made it clear how impotent the federal government could be in major domestic incidents.

Everybody around the table knew they were heading for one of the worst days of civil unrest in modern history, and there was little or nothing they could do.

A growl woke Joe. His eyes opened on a young man standing over him, reaching across Joe and trying to remove Sandy from her seat.

“Hands off,” Joe said gruffly.

“That’s my seat,” said the man, holding out his ticket.

“It’s taken. Find another.”

“There aren’t any,” the young man said, looking around.

“Where do you expect her to sit then?”

“On the floor?” the man suggested reasonably.

“Well if it’s good enough for her, it’s good enough for you.”

Joe shut his eyes, leaving the young man standing in the aisle. He had two choices: take issue with Joe or move on and sit in the aisle. Joe’s demeanor gave him little hope for a reasonable outcome.

“I’m sorry, that’s my seat,” he said, his anger rising.

Joe opened one eye. “You still here?”

“That’s my seat, I’ve paid for it!” He waved his ticket, his voice wakening other passengers.

“Give him his seat!” came a few sleepy, irritated voices.

Joe opened his other eye and could see the young man was working himself into a state.

“Where are we?”

We’re in Baton Rouge. What difference does that make!”

“What time is it?”

“5 a.m.,” replied the young man.

Joe noted they weren’t moving. “When do we leave?”

“Fifteen minutes,” said the young man, exasperated at having to answer questions when all he wanted was his seat.

Joe ignored the young man and turned to Sandy. “Quick girl, on you go!” he said.

Sandy jumped down and squeezed past the young man, trotting to the front of the bus and out into the bus station.

The young man moved to take his seat, and Joe threw out his arm, blocking his way. “Yes?”

“I’m taking my seat.”

“I told you, it’s taken.”

“The dog’s gone.”

“She’ll be right back. She hasn’t been out for hours.” Joe looked out and could see Sandy relieving herself.

“Are you not going to clean up after her?” said a woman from behind in disgust.

“I could, although I’m afraid afterwards I’d have to throw this young man out of her seat, and trust me, that would be far messier.”

“He’s paid for his seat, let him have it!”

Before anymore argument could ensue, Sandy trotted back into the bus and jumped onto her seat.

“This is outrageous!” the young man said loudly.

Joe took a swig from a fresh bottle of bourbon, courtesy of the old lady in Houston, shut his eyes, and went back to sleep.

Thirty hours to Washington.