Capitol Betrayal (12 page)

“Call back when you can.”

“I will. Bye.”

He snapped his phone shut.

“Do you always talk to your boss like that?” Arlo asked. “‘Cause I worked at Taco Bell once, and my supervisor didn’t even understand what sarcasm was. Which is probably why I only lasted three weeks.”

Seamus blew air through his nose. “Listen, kid, I’m not used to having someone hovering over my shoulder. When I was in the Middle East, I went weeks without any contact with anyone. Including superiors. And none of my superiors was—” He used better judgment and buried the end of the sentence.

“You were in the Middle East?”

“For the better part of ten years.”

“In the Iraq war?”

“Not exactly. In… um, contingency operations.”

“You were a spy!”

“I can neither confirm nor deny.”

“You were!” Arlo pounded the dash of the car. “You so were. That must be where you learned all those moves.”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Did you go after bin Laden?”

“Yeah. Damn near caught him, too.”

“Sweet!” Arlo bounced up and down like a kid meeting his favorite superstar. “You’re, like, one of America’s heroes.”

“If so, it’s a well-kept secret.”

“Have you ever been shot?”

“More times than I can count.”

“Have you ever had to kill anyone?”

Seamus closed his eyes briefly and sighed. “More times that I care to remember.”

“That is so razor. You know, I’ve done some counterintelligence work myself.”

Seamus arched an eyebrow. “You have?”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, in a video game. But it was a highly realistic simulation.”

“No doubt.” Seamus kept his eyes on the road. “Kid, have you given any thought to how we’re going to track down Colonel Zuko’s base of operations?”

“We? Did you say we?”

“Don’t have a stroke. Yes, I said we. How are we gonna do it?”

“Geez, I don’t know. Do you have any leads?”

“You’re my lead, Arlo. How are we going to find it?”

“How would I know?”

“An operations base like you described must need staff. There can’t be many people in the area with the techno-gizmo whiz kid qualifications to help terrorists hack into our defense computers.”

“True.”

“Where would we find these people? In the Washington area.”

“How would I know?” Arlo pondered for a moment. “A lot of brainiacs hang at the university.”

“Georgetown? Maybe. But what about when they’re not working?”

“I really don’t know.”

“Well, what do you do in your spare time?”

“I don’t have spare time. I mean, besides computer work. Programming. Facebook. World of Warcraft.”

Seamus rolled his eyes. “Don’t you ever go out?”

“Um, out?”

“Like, to meet friends. Perchance even go on a date?”

“I generally eschew frivolous and meaningless social encounters.”

“You have no friends.”

“That’s not true!”

“When was the last time you went out on a date?”

“What does it matter?”

“Are you gay?”

“No!”

“Then it matters.” Seamus took a hard left and merged onto the parkway. He was driving too fast, but hell, he was in a hurry. Traffic was thick, but in the opposite direction. He wondered if that was because the evacuation had begun. “How can I say this, kid? You need to get a life.”

“I have a life! I have a very rich and rewarding life—”

“Filled with megabytes and malware and perhaps, on a really good night, Internet porn.”

“You don’t know anything about it!”

“No,
you
don’t. And you need to, because I need to know where to find the other people like you.”

“D.C. Bytes.”

Seamus processed a moment. “Is that a critical evaluation?”

“No. That’s a deli and coffeehouse. Frequented by the upper echelon of the programming/hacking/phishing community.”

“Fine. Where is it?” Arlo gave him the address. “Then that’s where we’re headed.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll turn the car around and—”

At the edge of his peripheral vision, Seamus saw something in the air. It would be impossible to describe—if he had never seen anything like it before. It looked like a horizontal crayon mark streaking across the sky and moving very fast.

“Oh, my God,” Seamus said breathlessly.

“What? What?” Arlo jumped up in his seat and turned toward the back. “What is it? What’s happening?”

“We’re too late,” he said. His eyes traced the crayon mark as it passed over them. “The missile is on its way. And heading straight toward the Mall.”

(FIVE MINUTES BEFORE)

“All right, all right.” Secretary Rybicki jumped out of his chair and came between the president and his VP. “Let’s all cool down. We only have a few minutes left to make a very important decision. And we aren’t going to accomplish that with an alpha-male smackdown. Remember what Lincoln said: cool heads prevail in torrid times.”

“We need a show of strength,” Vice President Swinburne said. “The strength to make a tough call.”

“I don’t think most of the people I know would consider retreat a sign of strength,” Rybicki countered. “We can’t let this maniac go unchecked. I wonder if the president is doing enough. I think it’s time for scorched-earth tactics.”

“That’s crazy talk.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Vice President, but I don’t recall seeing you at the military academy. You went to Yale and studied geology, right? I’m sure that’s useful in some arenas. But I have studied military tactics, and I say we should go in with everything we’ve got, leave nothing intact. Scorched earth worked for the ancient Scythians. They put Persia in its place, back in their day. Maybe we should try the same thing. What do you think, Mr. President?”

“You’re right. You’re right.” The president fell back into his chair and pinched his nose. “I just wish… I wish…” His eyes seemed to detach, to lose their focus. His gaze drifted off to the side, somewhere vaguely in the direction of the presidential seal on the wall. “Here’s the story…”

Ben couldn’t quite hear what he was saying. Without making a show of it, he leaned in closer.

“… of a lovely lady…”

Ben glanced at Sarie. Sarie looked back at him, dumbfounded.

He wasn’t mistaken. The POTUS was singing the theme song from
The Brady Bunch
. In a time of crisis, with only a few minutes left till disaster, with the entire eastern seaboard facing possible destruction, he was singing the theme from a cheesy seventies sitcom.

Ben quickly scanned the room. Everyone else seemed just as incredulous as they were. He particularly scrutinized the vice president’s expression but found it very difficult to read.

To Ben’s amazement, the president played air guitar and made the sound of an electric fuzz during the song. “That’s the way we became the Brady Bunch.” He extended one arm across the table. “Yeah!”

Not a person in the room spoke. All eyes were focused on the leader of the free world—and then on the countdown on the wall.

“What’s the matter?” the president said, grinning. “No one has a sense of humor?”

Swinburne cleared his throat. “Um, Mr. President…”

“I don’t like that tone in your voice, mister. I don’t like it at all.” Abruptly the president looked at Ben. “You know what I wish, Ben?”

“Um, no…”

“I wish I could be a butterfly. Don’t you wish you could be a butterfly?”

Ben swallowed. “Well, I think you have to be a caterpillar first. I don’t think I’d care for all that slithering. And don’t they have short life spans?”

“But you could fly, Ben. Fly!” He shot to his feet and stretched out his arms. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

Off to the side, Ben saw the vice president make a motion toward the doctor. A moment later, Dr. Albertson crossed the room to his patient.

“Sorry, Roland. Need to take a few readings.”

“Why?” he said petulantly. “There’s nothing wrong with me!”

“Just want to do a spot check.” He removed his stethoscope. “Check your heartbeat, make sure there’s no cardiac arrest. Check your blood pressure. Make sure there’s no aneurysm. I’d like to take some blood, too, but I couldn’t analyze it without going topside….”

He looked across to Zimmer. Zimmer gave him a firm no.

“Well, just let me see what I can do with what I have available.” He took out the inhaler. “Why don’t you take a hit from this? Might help. Maybe your airways are constricted. That can make a person… lightheaded.”

“I am not light-headed!” Kyler replied. “Leave me alone!”

“Sorry, but when it comes to your health, I’m the boss.” He took the better part of a minute—one of the few they had left—to complete his examination. “My friends,” he said when he was done, “I detect nothing overtly the matter with the president’s health.”

Ruiz sputtered, “Well, there’s obviously something wrong!”

Swinburne’s brow was creased. “Doctor, I don’t want to seem opportunistic. But we don’t have time for any nonsense. We are in a crisis situation. This nation needs to be led by someone who is in full control of his faculties.”

“The law is the law,” Dr. Albertson said firmly. “And Roland Kyler is the president, whether you like it or not.”

“I know you’ve read the Twenty-fifth Amendment, Doctor. If the president becomes incapacitated—”

“I see no evidence of that.”

“Open your eyes, man!”

“I won’t declare any man incapable based on a little odd behavior.”

“Be reasonable. This could cost thousands of American lives.”

“I’m aware of the possible consequences.”

“Then
do
something!”

Dr. Albertson shook his head. “Physiologically, so far as I can tell from the instruments available to me down here, the president is in perfect health. So he remains in charge.”

“Not if—”

The vice president never got to finish his sentence. Agent Zimmer cut in. “Sir, Colonel Zuko is back on the line.”

“Put him on.”

Ben looked up and, to his astonishment, saw that the president had snapped back to his normal state. He looked as strong and sturdy as ever.

What the hell was going on here?

Ben didn’t have much time to ponder. The colonel’s eerie, disembodied voice was soon back on the speakerphone.

“I greet you again, Mr. President. And your loyal second, Mr. Swinburne. I hope you are all comfortable down there.”

“Get to the damn point,” Kyler barked.

“As you wish. I’m sure you have noticed that you have one minute left on the clock. One minute to save countless lives. May I ask your decision?”

“There’s no decision to make, Colonel.”

“Roland!” Swinburne said, but the president shushed him.

“There will be blood on your hands, Mr. President. I have given you every possible opportunity to stop it, but you have chosen to take another path. The path of death and violence.”

“You’re the one threatening to kill people.”

“And you’re the one threatening my people.”

“You can stop it!”

The vice president whispered softly, “You can, too, Roland. Please do. Please!”

“The United States will not negotiate with terrorists, Zuko,” the president said firmly. “Not now. Not ever.”

Even over the phone line, Ben thought he heard Zuko sigh. “Then you have made your decision. I am sorry.” He paused a moment. “I will call you again. After you have had time to count the dead.”

The room was silent. Everyone stared straight ahead.

“He doesn’t mean it,” Rybicki said, breaking the silence. “It’s a threat. That’s all. We called his bluff.”

“You think so?” Admiral Cartwright asked.

“Of course. Even a crazy bastard like that must know that—”

He was interrupted by a loud beeping sound coming from the communications station.

They were all too afraid to ask.

“My God, no!”

Zimmer turned, suddenly aware that everyone present had heard what he just said.

“Are you sure?” Zimmer said into his mouthpiece. “Are you absolutely sure?”

A pause. Zimmer’s eyes closed.

“Continue all evacuation efforts. Shut down the subway system. Get people out of there as fast as you can. Everyone. Law enforcement, emergency rescue. Everyone! As fast as possible!”

“What’s going on?” the president asked in a quiet voice.

Zimmer rose slowly to his feet. His face was ashen. “I’m—I’m—” He choked. He swallowed, then tried again. “I’m afraid I have confirmation, sir.”

“And?”

Zimmer paused only a few seconds before answering, but it seemed an eternity. “A missile has been launched.”

“Do you know where it’s going?”

Zimmer was still listening to his intel source in one ear. “I’m afraid I do, sir. It has almost arrived.”

“And?”

“And… it couldn’t possibly be any worse.”

The president pressed his fingers against his temples. “Just spit it out, man.”

And then Zimmer told them.

“Oh, my God. Oh, my dear God. Not that. Anything but that!”

Seamus pulled his car over to the side of the street and stared at the vast destruction before him. Even at this distance it was impossible to miss the devastation that lay before him.

He had seen the missile strike. He had spotted it when it was on its way, quickly found a good vantage point, and parked the car. Arlo stayed inside. Just as well. He might want to tuck his head under his hands, for that matter. Seamus wouldn’t blame him. No one needed to see this. He had seen missiles strike before, but this was different. This was not out in the barren, mostly unpopulated desert.

This missile struck at home.

The targeting was perfect. He had to give the terrorists—or perhaps their computer guru—credit for that. It struck dead on the roof of the Jefferson Memorial and instantaneously exploded it into billions of pieces. In less than the blink of an eye it was transformed from a marble masterpiece of neoclassical architecture to a field of rubble.