Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command (9 page)

Ricardo Perez began the descent and immediately slowed. He saw smoke rising from the road ahead. “What the fuck!”

He crept forward barely above five miles an hour. A car, or what was left of it, was smoldering. It looked as if it had stood at ground zero for a high-explosive attack.

Perez stopped short. He checked his watch. He was a minute early. Did the person he was supposed to meet have an accident? “Shit!” He was going to be in serious trouble when he got back home.

The young gangbanger took his gun out of the glove compartment and cautiously stepped out of his car.

“Anyone there?” he yelled. It was a useless call into the cold air. No one could have possibly survived such an explosion and fire.

An accident?
There were no skid marks. Perez walked around to the front of the car. The driver hadn’t hit anything.
The driver?
Perez looked in the wreckage. The skeletal corpse of a man was burned beyond recognition. The stench made him pull away.

It was too much for him. Perez broke into a full run back to his car. He had to get away. This was no accident. Then…

Ricardo Perez couldn’t intellectualize the blinding flash. It was too sudden; too unexpected. It simply happened. It was followed by a blast of raw energy and skin-searing heat. Perez was at his top speed, but the force of the explosion hurtled him a dozen yards back into the lifeless dirt of the Montana high desert.

Washington, D.C.

Christine Slocum hadn’t wasted a moment to invest herself in her new job. She was an excellent writer with a full command of history and a talent for working “closely” with others. Her credentials were impeccable: a Smith College graduate with honors, work at Associated Press and MSNBC, and a short stint with Congressman Teddy Lodge. Rumor had it that she’d served Lodge in more ways than one. After meeting the young beauty, Duke Patrick hoped he’d be as fortunate. But right now, it was all about work.

“This asinine succession proposal of Taylor’s. I want to know how we can defeat it,” Patrick barked from his desk.

Christine crossed behind him to read over his shoulder. She leaned close enough to him that he could smell the understated but inviting scent of her Calvin Klein Euphoria floral fragrance, an inviting combination of orchid, lotus, violet, and amber. She pointed at a line in the proposed amendment, rose up and offered her first commentary.

“It won’t be the first time it’s changed,” she said displaying her knowledge.“It started with Article II, Section 1, of the Constitution, then the Presidential Succession Act of 1792, The First Presidential Succession Act of 1886, the Presidential Succession Act of 1947, and more recently the Twenty-fifth Amendment.”

“Christ!” he said turning into her full body. “How do you know all this stuff?”

“I eat history up,” she explained. “Always have. A real history junkie.”

“Aderly was right about you.”

“Senator Aderly?”

“Yes.”

“But I’ve never met him.”

“Apparently your reputation precedes you,” Patrick said, taking in her extraordinary figure.

She recognized the look and the intent. “Then I hope I live up to your expectations,” she added, turning quickly and circling his desk.

“So, unlike the present law, the succession line went from the president to the vice president, then onto the secretary of state, followed by the secretary of the treasury, the secretary of war, and the rest of the cabinet.”

“I really had no idea.” That was obvious.

A similar, but more dignified conversation was underway in Attorney General Eve Goldman’s office as Katie Kessler discussed the milestones with Eve Goldman. Both women were dressed in linen pants suits, part of the Beltway uniform. Goldman’s was from a Nordstrom in Bethesda, Maryland, where she lived. Katie picked up a similar outfit at Nordstrom Rack on Wisconsin Avenue in Washington at a considerable savings.

“After President Truman succeeded Franklin Roosevelt, he decided to change the first line of succession from cabinet to Congress,” Kessler noted.

“Right,” the forty-nine-year-old AG added, demonstrating her understanding. “Truman didn’t even name a vice president until he ran for re-election in 1948.”

“And without a vice president serving under him, George Marshall, his secretary of state, would have become his immediate successor if he died.”

“Didn’t Truman think that in a democracy, the position of president is elective, and therefore it should fall to someone who had stood the test of the electorate? Hence the Speaker of the House, the leading officer of Congress?”

“Yes,” responded Kessler, “but the speaker is not a nationally elected representative, and is only elevated to national prominence by gaining the support and vote of the majority of the members of the House.

“Interestingly, the 1792 statute named the president
pro tempore
of the Senate as the first officer in the line of succession, not the Speaker of the House. But without a vice president, the power in the White House could switch to the opposition party.”

“Like now.”

“Exactly. And if that person is not, shall we say, presidential material, the country has a bigger problem. That was Truman’s perspective on the president pro tem at the time, a vindictive and powerful seventy-eight-year-old, good old Tennessean named Kenneth McKellar. On the other hand, Speaker of the House Sam Rayburn was a good friend of Truman’s.”

“Good enough to have been drinking with him when he got word about Roosevelt’s death,” Goldman noted. “But we’ve had extended periods since 1947 when the president’s party is not the majority party in either the House or the Senate, or both. So wouldn’t it be more advantageous to have a cabinet member appointed by a president to continue his policies than a legislative officer with a divergent political agenda?”

“Then this is all about me,” Patrick said, following the explanation from Christine Slocum in his office.

“Politically, at this moment, yes, but put yourself in the president’s shoes.”

“That’s my plan.”

She laughed.

“I’m serious,” he said. His demeanor switched to underscore the point. “Stick with me and this time you will make it to the White House.”

“I believe you could,” Slocum said.

“More than could. Will.”

“I stand corrected, Mr. Speaker. Will.” Slocum refocused. “Let me explain some more.”

“Okay.”

“President Grover Cleveland’s vice president died in office in 1886. Congress was out of session, and according to the 1792 act, there were no statutory successors if, in turn, Cleveland died or he couldn’t discharge his duties. So Congress reconvened and pulled together The First Presidential Succession Act, which set the line of succession after the vice president with the secretary of state, then the rest of the cabinet department heads, in order of their department’s establishment. Approved, the 1886 Act required the successor to convene Congress, if it wasn’t already in session, to determine whether or not to call for a special presidential election.”

“Kinda foreign notion. I don’t like it.”

“Neither did Congress, including the whole definition of who’s an
officer
. For example, would even the Speaker of the House be considered an
officer
in Constitutional terms?”

“Yes? No,” he settled on. “Hell, I’m elected, so…”

“Yes, but an
elected officer
of Congress,” Kessler said, reviewing the same argument. “The Constitution, Article II, Section 1, Clause 6, states that Congress may, by law, specify what
Officer
—capital
O—
shall act as president if both the president and vice president are unavailable. That’s the foundation of all the laws that followed. But does the Constitution view elected
officials
as
Officers
?”

“That’s a question for the Supreme Court,” Goldman offered with authority.

“Correct. But how would they rule? Cabinet members as officers? They’re
officers
appointed by the president, ratified by the Senate.”

“James Madison maintained officers are those appointed rather than elected.”

“Correct again, but it got sidestepped with the ratification of the Twenty-fifth Amendment. In the strictest sense, it focuses on how the president is succeeded in office, under the terms of the 1947 Act. But there’s a big old hole that’s there to fall into.”

“Take me through the worst case scenario as it now stands,” Goldman asserted.

“Worst case? There’s a terrorist attack. The president dies. The vice president, Speaker, and Senate pro tem are also killed. The secretary of state resigns his office in order to be sworn in.”

“But imagine that the Senate moves at light speed to elect a new president pro tem. The appointment will bump out the secretary of state.”

“So he’s now in,” Duke Patrick chimed in.

“Or
she
,” Slocum said with a seductive smile. “But it’s not over. Minutes later, the House names a new Speaker.”

“
She
or he,” Katie noted to the Attorney General, “would bump the Senate president behind the Speaker. The Senate is in disarray and the former secretary of state is out of a job.”

“Craziness,” Goldman commented.

“But possible.”

Eve Goldman was impressed with Kessler’s command of the subject. She’d heard much of it before, amidst the chaos before Teddy Lodge was about to take office. Now it all meant so much more.

“Since September 11, 2001, we’ve lived under the specter of this reality. Terrorism, treason, and other unimaginable plots point to the flaws in the existing structure of succession. One bomb, one missile, or God knows what could throw the country into utter chaos. This is not fiction. It just hasn’t happened yet. We need to have clarity for once and for all over the definition of
Officer
and eliminate any scenario that leads or contributes to Congressional chaos. That’s why I thought that a system that allows for a president and vice president-in-waiting, of the president’s choice, provides for political stability until the next election.”

“It’s bullshit,” the Speaker exclaimed. “Pure unadulterated bullshit. And Taylor’s doing this only because we’re in opposite parties.”

“Maybe so,” Slocum said only partially agreeing. “But similar ideas have been talked about for some time on both sides of the aisle. From Representatives Brad Sherman to Senators Cornyn and Lott.”

“Well I’m not them. And I’m not going to vote myself out of a job if something happens to Taylor before a vice president is confirmed.”

“Fortunately, it’s not Patrick’s decision,” Goldman declared. “It’s the state’s job to ratify an amendment.”

“And that’s where we need to be heard,” Kessler added.

“With a lot of explaining.”

Kessler nodded her agreement.

“It’ll take allies across the country. Governors and members of Congress. Talk show hosts and community leaders. That’s Bernsie’s area. And prep. And that, my dear young colleague, will be your domain. Things like this don’t happen overnight, but you’ll be spending a lot of time at your desk worrying about it. More work, less boyfriend. Sure you’re ready?”

“I am,” Katie said, really selling her confidence.

“What’s her plan?” Patrick asked, now standing and looking out his window at the Washington Mall which stretched out for blocks from the Capitol.

“To get the states in line with the idea. If passed, the president will nominate a candidate as the immediate successor after the vice president. This could be a well-respected or beloved former president or vice president, or someone else with national visibility. Probably a safe choice, but a member of the administration’s party. The nominee would be subject to Senate confirmation. If approved, this person would receive regular intelligence reports and protection from the Secret Service.”

“Utter bullshit putting someone up who hasn’t been elected,” Patrick complained again.

“You could say the same for the members of the cabinet who are already in the line of succession,” Slocum responded.

“Yes, but…”

“Positioned correctly, it won’t be such an impossible plan to sell in.”

“And this Kessler woman is the prime proponent of this?” the Speaker asked.

“As far as we’ve heard.”

“Where the hell did she come from, and who made her God?”

“Word on the streets is she’s hooked up with a boyfriend in the Secret Service.” Her innate competitive sense took over. “But that can change.”

Jefferson City,
Montana

Later

They’d been on the road for a little under two hours.

“Shhh,” the driver of the Toyota said. “There might be something on the radio. He set the car radio to scan until it landed on a news station out of Missoula, KLYQ. Maybe the news would have a report.

“No loose ends.” Those were the orders. Five thousand American dollars were wasted in the two executions. But the man in Paraguay considered it a small price to pay considering the secrecy it bought.

Eventually the news came on after the weather and American sports scores, which meant nothing to the pair of foreigners. Not understanding the difference between national and local news, they caught the network broadcast at the top of the hour.

“From Houston, comes this update. The FBI is investigating the identity of the arriving passenger shot by U.S. Customs and Border Protection agents yesterday at George Bush Intercontinental Airport. Authorities said that the man resisted arrest and killed one passenger with a gun he seized from a federal officer before other armed customs agents opened fire.”

“Do you think he was with us?” asked one of the passengers.

“No. Probably just a deranged American zealot,” the driver replied. “The country is full of them.”

The two passengers in the back nodded in agreement. They were, after all, not familiar with America beyond the violent movies and uncivilized reality TV shows they’d seen. They’d spent their lives in their books and their laboratories. One was a chemist, the other a biologist.

The men waited for news more relevant to them; word of the explosion. But there was nothing. The final story was about a man named Duke Patrick who had the title
Speaker of the House
, whatever that was. It seemed to them that he was making some worthless speech.

When the news finished, someone called Savage came on and started yelling. The driver turned the radio off.

Holt County Health Department Clinic

Oregon, MO

Dr. Noam Adam was confused. In the span of just two days the Indonesian immigrant had treated three patients with the same symptoms; some seemingly flu related, some not. The headache and weakness were consistent with a flu diagnosis. But the ringing in the ears bothered him and the intermittent waves of nausea confused him. The disorientation his patients experienced was unexplainable.

Avian flu?
He asked himself.
Another strain of H1N1?
He really didn’t know and he certainly didn’t want to be an alarmist, not in rural Oregon. Adam would run more tests on his own time. After all, three sick farmers in a week didn’t add up to a pandemic.

So far, the basic blood tests proved inconclusive. The white blood cell count on the first to get sick had decreased, but not exceptionally. He would have to watch the others. They each had temperatures that peaked a little over 101.5—nothing out of the ordinary. He excused the red spots on the second patient’s skin as fever related. Again, nothing out of normal range.

Everything pointed to the flu. It was January. Quite normal. Adam simply needed to check Holt County Health’s vaccine supplies and maybe order more. There was no need to panic.

The Pentagon

CPT Walker read the detail she’d collected from researching the names Roarke provided. They all had one thing in common: they died in the last month. Yet, with the exception of one possible fatal heart attack victim, whose death near Rockport, Massachusetts, she just found on the Web, nothing jumped out at her. The only reason she gave Charlie Messinger more than cursory examination was that he died close to where Walker and Roarke spent a wonderfully wild weekend. Later, she’d chalk up the random connection as a “God Wink;” a reference to a series of books she enjoyed reading about how people should pay attention to powerful coincidences. This was definitely one.

Walker typed the name
Messinger, Charles (Charlie)
, into her computer. Hundreds of references came up.
Too many.
She was about to hit delete when her mind went back to the small B&B a stone’s throw from Bearskin Neck.
Okay, Mr. Messinger. Who the hell are you?

She stuck with the search for a good two hours. Walker had to refocus a few times because she kept getting lost in her memories. At one point she cursed Roarke. But she knew he was happy now. Besides, Roarke had played matchmaker and set her up with Touch Parsons over at the FBI.
You get ten more minutes, Messinger. Talk to me.

He did.

Charles V. Messinger, Colonel, U.S. Army, ret.

“Hello,” she said. “What do we have here?” She decided to see. Walker logged onto a secure Pentagon site which she opened with her personal password.

She sat back and read. Well into the third page of his record was an astounding story. That’s when she realized she had experienced a full-fledged “God Wink.”

Montana Hills

The cold woke him. Freezing cold. Perez reached for blankets that weren’t there; for his girlfriend; for his mother. But there was only the cold and the dirt.

Where am I?
The pain cut short his first conscious thought. He forced his eyes open. Even then he didn’t instantly remember what had happened.
Driving. A lot of driving. Making the drop. Driving through the hills. Then…
The burning car.
The explosion!

He survived. Now he had to live.
How?
He was miles from help and alone in a God-forsaken land. No jacket. No way out.

The young man slowly raised himself up. He stretched.
Sore, but nothing broken.
His clothes were ripped. The back of his shirt all but burned off. The sun was going down, which meant he’d been out for hours; critical hours when he could have been walking back to the highway. Now it would be suicide to leave. He had to survive the night.

The smell of burning rubber and gasoline was still in the air. He turned around to see the rubble barely fifteen yards away. His survival instincts took command.
Gotta stay warm.

For the next eight hours Ricardo Perez sat by the charred wreckage of his car, throwing anything flammable into the fire.

He drifted in and out of sleep dreaming fitfully about the explosion and finally bolting awake with the realization that he had been double-crossed.

FBI Headquarters

“What do we have here, people?” Roy Bessolo felt he’d given his highly focused team enough time to produce some theories. They were fast and smart agents. All handpicked by Bessolo himself.

“Got a probable ID,” volunteered Nancy Drahushak, one of Bessolo’s rising super stars. “Try this on for size. Abdul Hassan. Egyptian born. German educated. It appears this was the first time Abdul Hassan has been in the United States. But it’s not the first time this man’s been here.”

“What do you mean?” asked Komar Erkin, the newest member of Bessolo’s A-plus Team.

Drahushak held up one photograph, then another. “Looks like Hassan may have made an appearance or two under some aliases.” Drahushak tossed them on the table. They certainly resembled the deceased. The photographs were in the FBI database and they had triggered the Houston DETAIN alert. “Touch Parsons is into them now.”

“Touch?” Komar wondered.

“Duane Parsons,” explained Bessolo. “We call him ‘Touch.’ Because that’s exactly what he has. A real touch for facial recognition programs. He works closely with us and FTTTF.”

The Foreign Terrorist Tracking Task Force shares information with the FBI’s National Joint Terrorism Task Force and eighty-four regional joint task forces. Their principal duty—data-mining; creating “electronic footprints” of known and suspected terrorists. Hassan was not one, but his other identities were. That’s why his picture produced a positive at the airport.

“I’ve got more,” Drahushak continued. The brunette, the only PhD in Criminology in Bessolo’s team, handed out more photographs. Four good
maybes
. Take a look.”

The pictures went from hand to hand. Soon, all of Bessolo’s crack team had a chance to see them.

“The best ones are from Syria. Oh-eight. Looks like he was at a trade convention. See the banners in the background?” Drahushak was well into researching the event, sponsored by a chemical consortium. “I should have more later today. Now for the
maybe.
This one is from South America.”

“Oh?” Bessolo said. Hassan’s flight originated in Buenos Aires, with stops in Colombia and Mexico City.

“This could be him, too.” She handed over a somewhat blurry picture from a soccer match. “Second row up. He’s third from the left.”

“How’d we get this? Bessolo asked.

“Sharp field work. A CIA officer I know takes his camera everywhere, especially soccer games. He puts everything in the hopper. Just in case. He says you never know what’s going to be important later.”

“What did this cost you,” asked Aaron Phillips in an all-too-snarky manner.

“Something you’ll never get to enjoy from me!”

“Smart ass.”

“Well, thank you.”

It was the kind of banter that Bessolo liked. He promoted team spirit, which was particularly important during marathon investigations—like this was sure to become.

“The shot’s fuzzy,” Bessolo said, returning to the job at hand.

“Parsons is working on it. By the time he’s through with it, we’ll see what his fillings are made of.”

Chuck Rantz, Bessolo’s fingerprint expert, tapped the photo. “Do we know who he’s sitting with?” It appeared that the two men sitting to Hassan’s right could be Middle Eastern.

Bessolo liked the question.

“Don’t know yet. Gotta wait until Touch is through with his run at it. Then we’ll cross-reference,” Drahushak explained.

“Who the fuck’s playing?” Bessolo asked.

“Who’s playing,” Drahushak answered. “I don’t know.” She thought it was a joke.

“Find out. I want to know if Hassan is just out for a good time at a match or whether he’s rooting for his own home team.”

“Good question.” Drahushak made a note to check. She wished she’d thought of that.

“Who’s next?”

Komar Erkin raised her hand. “Unconfirmed, and unrelated to the photos, but interesting. BND may have something.” BND stood for the
Bundesnachrichtendienst
, the German intelligence service.

Erkin was on tenuous ground for a newbee. President Taylor had made it very clear that during his term, America would not act on unconfirmed intelligence or handpicked information that might be suspect.

“Give it to me,” Bessolo barked.

“Hassan may have also gone by the name of Musof al-Mihdhar.

They have a nice thick file on an al-Mihdhar. Chuck, check the fingerprints on file. Until we’ve got real confirmation, I hesitate to go much further.”

“Pique my interest, just for argument sake,” Bessolo said.

“Well, your guy Parsons should run these pictures, too.”

“Yes, yes. And…”

“If they’re the same, I’d personally worry a little bit more.” Erkin had everyone’s attention. “Al-Mihdhar is a Saudi. He holds a doctorate in chemistry and a masters in geology, with some dubious credits in Israel thanks to Hamas. BND had been tracking him around the world. They lost him six months ago.”

So he was an Egyptian or a Saudi? A chemist and a biologist?” Bessolo’s entire body language stiffened.

“Whichever worked on any given day,” Erkin stated.

“Then I want to know if the others at the soccer game were also into geology and chemistry. And what kind of deadly cocktail those two ingredients make.” Bessolo left his team with a lot to do.