Executive Treason (45 page)

The White House

“Kessler.” Katie identified herself to one of the two White House guards who stopped her cab. She noticed far more security than normal: more Secret Service and Marines; more guns. “I’m here to see Scott Roarke.”

While one guard stayed with her, another looked at a list. Her name was not on it. “You have an appointment?”

“Mr. Roarke just called. I got here quickly and…”

“May I see your license, please?”

Katie complied, also producing a temporary White House ID she’d forgotten to mention.

The marine stepped aside and radioed inside. He had to speak loudly over the sirens from other cars rolling into the driveway.

While the marine was making his call, Katie paid the driver, but was careful not to get out of the cab until the Marine okayed her.

“You’re cleared Ms. Kessler,” the guard said a minute later. “Agent Pino will escort you through security.”

“Thank you.”

The woman agent appeared almost out of nowhere and led Katie to the metal detectors. She handed Katie’s purse and attaché case to another guard at an X-ray machine.

“Is this your first visit to the White House, Ms. Kessler?” Agent Pino asked.

“No, my third.” Her first meeting was immediately after the inauguration. The second was only a few days ago with Bernie Bernstein and White House counsel, Brad Rutberg. Now she sensed that this visit was going to be different for entirely new reasons, still unknown.

There was a profound change in everyone’s manner. People were quickly racing through the halls. The urgency from outside carried right inside, or, as she realized, vice versa.

“This way, please.” Pino ushered her to an elevator and accompanied Katie down. When the doors opened, Katie entered a whole new world. Marines were posted everywhere. Officers with uniforms from almost every branch of the military scurried from room to room.

“Just ahead.” They continued to even more guarded quarters, the White House Situation Room. The Secret Service agent spoke to a huge marine posted at the door. He radioed inside showing no hint of emotion. A minute later, Scott emerged. It wasn’t the Scott Roarke she’d left earlier that morning. His face was ashen; he looked pained.

“What’s wrong?”

Roarke pulled her inside and closed the door. What he had to say was not even for the guards. Not yet.

“The president’s plane went down.”

Katie suddenly knew why she was there. It wasn’t because Scott needed his girlfriend at his side. All her work was coming to bear.

Roarke explained what he could. With news of the crash of Air Force One came the inevitable question:

“Who’s in charge?”

Without another word, Roarke accompanied Katie to Brad Rutberg and Supreme Court Chief Justice Leopold Browning.

“Ms. Kessler,” Justice Browning said, “circumstances have moved up our meeting.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied. She firmly shook the hand of the man she deeply respected. She hadn’t seen the chief justice since their spirited conversations in January. “We have much to discuss.”

“Indeed.” The chief justice was 68, which made him younger than most of his colleagues, yet he was more knowledgeable than anyone else on the bench. It was difficult to argue Constitutional wisdom with the former Illinois prosecutor. Katie had tried. And though she was persuasive in their last meeting, she learned that when it came to law, no one in the country had a more brilliant mind than Browning. What can I possibly tell him that he doesn’t already know?

Haruku, Indonesia

The prisoners were marched blindfolded from the shore, up a rocky incline, through a dense tropical jungle, to a flat area. By the sound of things, they settled in a tent. The fact was confirmed when the rebels removed their hoods. “At least we’re not in a cave,” Taylor whispered to Rossy.

“Silence!” Komari’s order was followed by the butt of a rifle across the back of the president’s head.

Taylor fell to the ground. Komari barked something else in Indonesian, which the president quickly realized were instructions to tie the prisoners together in pairs, back-to-back. Taylor was lashed to Ross. Considering what they had gone through together, the president couldn’t have asked for a better partner.

“Sorry I put us down in these waters, Rossy,” the president whispered when Komari and his men were working on the others.

“You saved a lot of lives, sir.”

“Did I?” They were surrounded by a dozen men with guns.

The soldier closest to them couldn’t stop gaping at Taylor. He’d seen the look before. Pride over a valued prize. Word had spread that the prisoners included the American president. But Taylor assumed that very fact created a serious problem.
They have to figure out what to do with me.

“Surely the infidels will pay handsomely for their leader,” Atef boasted. “We will trade the keys to the capitol for his life. Right?”

Komari wasn’t so sure. Bargaining would surely give us away. The Americans can trace radio signals. Far better to kill them now and forget that we ever found the infidels. But another thought called out to the commander.

“The Prophet may be testing us, Atef.”

“Testing? Why?”

“To see if we have the strength to demonstrate our commitment.”

The commander’s junior didn’t understand. “How? We have done what no army has ever done in history. We have captured the American president.”

“We have done little more than put ourselves in the enemy’s sight. Unless, this is the Prophet’s way of determining whether we deserve to continue.” Komari actually believed what he was saying. “Perhaps we can take the heads of our prisoners?”

Atef was aghast. “Sir!”

“Atef, the Great Satan is certain to try to hunt us down. We shot a boatload of unbelievers. We destroyed their jet fighter. But they don’t know who or where we are. If we try to bargain for the president’s life, we will reveal ourselves. They are smart. They have their technology. But if we kill them and wait for their searches to end, we will be free to strike again. After all, as it was with the revelation of God to the Prophet Muhammad, out jihad demands we command the right and forbid the wrong. Our right is to kill the Americans. We forbid them from interrupting our holy cause. We must, as in the hadith—the word of the Prophet—avert injustice by action.”

It seemed to make sense to Atef. “So it is a test. Allah be praised.”

The Pentagon

“Issue the Warning Order,” J3 declared. The commander of USASOCOM didn’t want to lose another moment.

“Yes, sir,” replied Admiral Zach Standish of NAVSPECWARCOM. The Navy Special Warfare Command oversaw the SEALs and their two other components, the Special Boat Squadron (SBS) and the SEAL Swimmer Deliver Vehicles (SDVs).

“Where are the nearest SDVs?” the general asked.

Standish replied, “The 7th Fleet has two on the
Essex
.”

“No subs?”

“Too far away. But here’s the problem, we don’t have a full team onboard right now.”

“Why not?”

“They went into the Solomons after the attack,” Standish explained. “So, we’ll have to bring in another platoon to hook up with the
Essex
.”

J3 asked the obvious. “Where’s the nearest? Coronado?”

“No, luckily Pearl.” Pearl Harbor.

J3 calculated the number of men the two submersibles could transport. Eight. It would have to be enough. Actually, SEALs were known to work best in tight eight-man groups.

“Deploy them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And confirm when the Warning Order has been received and what time the Team will be airborne.”

“And their mission, sir?”

“We’re a go for a D.A.” A Direct Action: military-speak for a combat operation.

The Warning Order set a number of critical things in order. It put the U.S. Navy SEALs on notice, it established the operational chain of command, it readied combat and tech support, and it got SEALs where they needed to go. Heaven and Earth opened with the issuance of a Warning Order. Generally the act provided SEALs with up to twelve hours to prepare. They’d have a lot less today.

The White House
Situation Room

“What are we looking at?” Katie was confused by the banks of monitors. The chief justice was by her side.

“Satellite views fibered in from the Pentagon’s National Military Command Center, the NMCC,” explained Roarke. “They’re fed from various agencies including the National Geospatial Agency in Herndon, Virginia, west of D.C. There’s also intel from surveillance planes over the target area and we’re seeing tactical maps of the Indonesian islands. But I can’t help you there.”

“There are so many,” she observed.

“Thousands. But,” he pointed to a large hi-def monitor, “fewer in the immediate vicinity. That’s what they’re focusing on.”

“Then he’s alive? The president is alive?”

“We don’t know. All we’re doing is tracking a boat we presume he’s on. We’re waiting for infrared, closer satellite pictures, and more telemetry.”

Eve Goldman walked in with Bernie Bernstein. He was just finishing briefing her when Chief Justice Leopold joined them.

“Madame Attorney General,” the austere Supreme Court judge said.

“Chief justice,” she replied. Both sounded grim. “We have some work to do.” It was an understatement.

Katie stepped forward and said hello to Eve Goldman. “Attorney General, good to see you again. I mean…” She tried to apologize for her flub. Good was out of place.

“We’re all frazzled, Ms. Kessler. And under the circumstances, it is good to see you.”

Katie immediately felt better.

The AG continued. “I understand you’ve been doing some comprehensive research. Anything that bears discussion now?”

Brad Rutberg and Bernie Bernstein moved closer to the conversation.

“I’m afraid I have a great deal of long-range thinking. Succession is inherently flawed as legislated. But as far as today?” Katie looked to Chief Justice Browning for support. “There is only the law.”

He agreed without opinion.

“But,” she said surprising everyone, “I actually do have one thought.”

“Ms. Kessler, not another of your polemics,” the nation’s senior justice contended.

“If you’ll allow me, sir. I’ve read a great deal about bumping.”

“We’re not facing that situation,” he pointed out.

“No, but for argument sake, if the Speaker of the House is not able to assume office at the moment that a successor must be named, then the senate pro tem serves as acting president. Right?”

“That’s right,” Rutberg chimed in.

“It could be because the Speaker was killed in a catastrophic event,” Katie continued.

“Arguably so,” the chief justice remarked.

“But the House majority could quickly elect a new speaker and according to law, he or she would bump the acting president.”

Browning failed to see where her argument was going. “You’re outlining a completely different scenario, Ms. Kessler.”

“I am, your honor.”

“Then what is your point?”

The attorney general also wanted to know. “Please, counselor. Congressman Patrick is on his way. With the president down and presumed incapacitated, perhaps even dead, we must proceed accordingly.” Even if it means making that moron Patrick president, she said to herself.

“Really?” Katie said. “I think there may be another possibility.” She showed a devilish, almost political smile. “A bit of bumping, but quite within reason.”

“What? What kind of possibility?” Chief Justice Browning demanded.

“A decision designed to buy us some time.”

“No more riddles, Ms. Kessler! State what you mean.”

“It will require an additional call before the Speaker is informed. When he is, I don’t think he’ll like it.”

“I don’t care what the hell he likes!” blurted Bernie Bernstein, quite in character.

The lawyers politely ignored the comment even though they agreed. Chief Justice Browning raised his eyebrow. Kessler had a way of getting to him.

“Ms. Kessler,” Browning commanded, “Let’s hear it. The Constitution is calling.”

The Cabinet Room
White House
minutes later

“Mr. Speaker, please take a seat,” the marine guard said. “Someone will be up to see you shortly.”

“Up?” Up meaning up from the Situation Room or the War Room? “Look, Colonel.” Patrick got right in the officer’s face. “I don’t like surprises. I was ordered here told that there was a matter of national urgency.” He was actually told emergency, but he remembered wrong. “The Secret Service didn’t say a goddamned thing about what’s going on. Bernstein didn’t either when he called. Now you. I don’t like guessing games.”

The marine locked eyes with the Speaker. “Congressman, friends don’t consider me much of a game player either.”

“Then we understand each other.”

“Not at all, Mr. Speaker. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

The White House
War Room
fifteen minutes later

While the discussion about succession stayed in the Situation Room, military planning moved into the White House War Room. The FBI’s Robert Mulligan was invited in, along with Presley Freedman and Scott Roarke. So were the secretaries of defense and homeland security.

“What do we know about this place?” Mulligan asked Secretary of Defense T.J. Harriman.

“Lots. And it all speaks to the president’s initiative in Australia. The Malukus consist of 1,027 islands. Only seven of them are considered big. About 622 are uninhabited. And that’s only a fraction of Indonesia,” explained the SecDef, a former CEO of Ford. “You want to start a revolution? That’s the place. You can strike and hide with ease. That’s what a Muslim vigilante group called Laskar Jihad—or Holy War Forces—have been doing for years. And for years they were just playing with matches. Now they’re into their own scorched earth program. The worst part is they’ve got plentiful fuel—the country’s Christians. Since ‘99, they’ve been burning their way through the islands, picking up recruits and trading drugs for weapons. The NDI tells me that a considerable amount of their firepower comes from the Chinese.”

“And no one’s done anything about them?”