America's Trust (8 page)

“What the fuck are you saying?” interrupted the ambassador, struggling to comprehend the enormity of the defense minister’s words.

“I’m saying, I believe our leaders may have been assassinated, and I will, as is my office’s right, take full authority for the defense of our country.”

The defense minister cut the line to his ambassador and addressed his war room.

“Gentlemen, I have reason to believe that we are under attack and that our leaders may have been immobilized. As of this moment, I am assuming authority of the government and military of Russia under the succession guidelines.”

With the information pointing to at least two world powers mounting an operation against them, the defense minister received no dissent to his actions.

“Gentlemen, take us to full battle readiness!”

A cheer filled the room as the military men, concerned at their lack of action, were about to be unleashed and respond to the threat before them.

Situation Room

The White House

Washington D.C.

“Mr. President!” a panicked shout cut across the room. The president turned to the young telecoms operator, whose outburst had stopped the most powerful men in the free world in their tracks.

“Yes, son?” asked the president, a calming tone to his voice.

“The Russians have started fueling their ICBMs!”

“Extinction?” questioned Swanson, failing to hide her skepticism.

“If I’m right, our country is already on the brink of war, a war we don’t even know is coming,” he emphasized.

Two fighter jets flying low overhead interrupted any further conversation, their engines drowning out everything in their wake.

“You couldn’t have…” Swanson tried but was cut off by another two jets. She waited for the quiet to return. “…timed that more perfectly,” she said before another two streaked overhead.

Both looked out tentatively from the bandstand and were shocked by the sight that greeted them. A sea of military helicopters swarmed towards them and Washington ahead, a flock of fighters swirling like predators above.

“Holy shit!” exclaimed Butler.

Swanson looked at him for answers.

He shook his head. “They’re evacuating the Cabinet and senior office holders. It’s part of the Continuity of Government Plan.”

“Bullshit!” replied Swanson halfheartedly. The scale of the operation was unlike anything she had seen before.

“I have to get to the president,” announced Butler, striding away from the bandstand.

Swanson grabbed his elbow. “I think he already knows,” she remarked.

“If there’s one thing I’ve discovered over the last two years, it’s that nothing is what it seems.”

“What the fuck do you mean, nothing is what it seems?” she asked as he pulled against her grasp. “What does that even mean?”

“Literally that.” Butler didn’t have time to argue with her or explain. He just needed to get to the president. He escaped her hold and made off at a jog.

“You won’t get anywhere near the president,” she warned.

Butler looked back and smiled a smile that suggested otherwise. Swanson was a sworn officer of the law and Butler was, only hours earlier, the subject of a top priority manhunt and arrested by her within spitting distance of the White House. What if there were some massive conspiracy and Butler was in fact the lone gunman? Whatever the case, something was most definitely going down and Jane Swanson was not the type of person to miss out. She picked up the pace and fell in behind Butler’s steady jog just as he began to slow to a stop.

The small diner that sat at the park’s entrance had a TV set that flashed a picture of an American Airlines Boeing 777.

“So are you going to tell me what you uncovered?” she asked when she eventually caught up with him.

Butler ignored her question, walking into the diner, his full attention on the TV screen.

“That’s the new US ambassador to China,” he explained to Swanson as the screen filled with James Marshall’s photo.

“Can you turn that up?” he commanded rather than asked of the waitress, who although unhappy by the order, did as she was told.

“…
just to confirm, reports suggest that American Airlines AA187 from Chicago to Beijing has crashed in Mongolia, all on board are presumed dead…”

“Holy fuck!” exclaimed Swanson, reading the news scrolling across the screen. Two hundred and forty-one passengers had been on board along with the ambassador. The news had floored Butler who fell into a seat and placed his head in his hands, his head shaking slowly.

Swanson placed a reassuring hand on his back. “Was he a good friend?” she asked.

“Who?” replied Butler looking up into Swanson’s face.

“The ambassador?”

“Never met him.”

“Your reaction, you seemed--”

“Terrified is the word you are looking for,” replied Butler sincerely, staring into her eyes.

Swanson began again to feel uneasy around Butler, as that was most definitely
not
the word she had been looking for.

“I can’t believe they have actually started!” mumbled Butler to himself as he got up.

“Will you, for the love of God, just tell me what the fuck is going on?!” shrieked Swanson through clenched teeth. Patience had never been one of her strong points. Butler looked her in the eyes before taking her hand and leading her outside. The clatter of the helicopters filled the air. As they began to move down the sidewalk, Swanson pulled back; she wasn’t going any further without more information.

“Just get me to the president and I’ll tell you everything.”

“I’m taking you anywhere near our president. How the hell do I know you’re not part of all of this? Perhaps Chan and Smith are the good guys!”

“They tried to kill you!”

“Perhaps I just got in the way and you are so dangerous they took the risk.”

“They released me!”

“To eliminate you off the grid.”

“I don’t have time for this,” contested Butler, watching the first wave of choppers head towards central D.C. “You’ve read too many spy novels.”

“Or not enough perhaps,” Swanson countered.

“With or without you, I’m going to save our country, or at least damn well try,” announced Butler, turning and running towards the center of D.C.

The first shot parted his hair. The second burned his scalp. He had no intention of finding out where the third would hit. Butler stopped in his tracks and turned to Agent Swanson, who had assumed the classic shooter’s stance and was screaming, “FBI! Stop or I’ll shoot!”

“You
did
shoot!” he protested, raising his hands in surrender.

“I hadn’t finished, you stopped before the
you,
” she smiled.

The sound of police sirens cut through even the helicopters above. The diners had witnessed the action and despite the majority filming the scene, some of the diners had actually used their cells to make a call.

Butler knew he had seconds to make his move. He walked closer and within striking distance. Swanson kept the pistol leveled at him but he was certain she wouldn’t shoot him, certainly not in cold blood. She felt she had the upper hand, the gun pointing at him, his hands raised in surrender. What she had failed to comprehend was just how quickly Butler could turn the tables. His arms were within a distance that would allow one swift motion, knocking the pistol’s aim from him as he spun into her body and with one quick flick of his wrist, snap her neck.

His only decision was whether she was necessary collateral; he certainly no longer had time to entertain the authorities.

Barvikha Castle

Russian President’s Private Dascha

Outskirts of Moscow

Captain Pyotr Bulinov couldn’t help but feel some envy at the world that filled their view. The ultra exclusive Barvikha, home to the political elite and the oligarchs, was a playground for the rich and beautiful. The low-level helicopter flight along the length of the River Moscow would bring them in behind the treeline that sheltered the president’s dascha from prying eyes. The speedboats and cruisers that lined the banks were more than a lifetime’s salary to him. The homes not even worthy of a dream, they were so far beyond his and his men’s reach.

He had no idea what to expect. The Defense Minister’s orders had been simple: Deal with whatever you find. The president and the premier had been unreachable for over an hour. Landlines, cell phones, emergency contacts, bodyguards, private secretaries – all had been tried and none had answered. With little or no intelligence, his solution was that every available member of the Special Operations Service at his disposal was loaded into the two MI-17 helicopters. Fully armed, the sixty elite soldiers were the best the Russian military had to offer and a formidable force. In exercises, the SOS joked that only when Alpha had a three-to-one advantage was it even close to being a fair fight.

“Thirty seconds!” announced the pilot.

Pyotr gave his men the signal, his helicopter would go in first, the second would await the order should backup be required.

The helicopter jumped into the air before slamming back down. The pilot had just gone up and over the trees in one swift motion. Even before the helicopter’s wheels had touched down, the doors were open and the troops flooded out. When the last man’s boot left the chopper, it spiraled up and away. Pyotr’s men had already fanned out and secured the area.
So far so good
, he thought. The building showed no signs of any damage, no firefight, although it was eerily quiet.

“Chopper two stay in position, over,” he radioed to his backup chopper.

The line remained quiet. No response.

Pyotr tried again. Nothing.

Pyotr signaled for his number two to make the call. There was no response. Both shrugged. There was nothing else they could do. Their mission was to ascertain the whereabouts and/or condition of the Russian leaders.

The next step was to infiltrate the seemingly empty building. As they neared the front door, he began to feel uneasy.

Dmitry Simonov, the defense minister watched as the picture on the screen jumped upwards and then fell back to the ground. The view from the SOS team member’s helmet camera made the small group watching from the Intelligence Room feel queasy as they experienced every bump and movement in real time. The view of the unblemished castle, thirty miles to their west, offered a momentary cheer of hope. Visions of a war-torn castle had been their worst fear. As the camera’s guide exited the helicopter, the screen went blank. The feed ceased.

“What’s wrong?” asked Dmitry, turning to the technical team.

“We have no idea, sir,” replied the operator after a few tweaks to ensure everything was in order.

“Get me Captain Bulinov,” he barked. His nerves had held well but the pressure was mounting.

After a few minutes of scrabbling around and a number of ‘Captain Bulinov, come in’ calls, the operator again shook his head in despair.

“Try the other chopper!” The Defense Minister’s voice trembled slightly.

“Chopper Two, come in.”

“Chopper Two,” came the prompt reply.

“What the hell is happening?” asked Dmitry angrily, not entertaining any pleasantries.

“We are holding out of sight and awaiting orders,” announced the pilot of the second chopper, somewhat bewildered by the defense minister’s tone.

“You’re holding out of sight and we’ve just lost all contact with the rest of your team!” he screamed into the radio.

As the second team’s communications appeared intact, a second helmet camera was activated and the screen jumped to life once more. The inside of the MI-17 showed thirty troops preparing to enter the action. Another massive bump on the screen pre-empted the door opening and the troops rushing out of the metal tube. Once again, as the helmet camera moved out into open ground, the feed died.

“What the fuck?!” screamed Dmitry, throwing his coffee cup against the wall, just inches from the screen. The cup exploded into a million pieces. The screen stayed blank and the speakers remained silent.

Pyotr raised his hand and his men froze. The main door lay slightly ajar. There was no sign of any guards, nor for that matter, any fighting or disturbance. He raised three fingers and motioned forward. The front three troopers rushed ahead, securing the door and the hallway beyond.