Code of Conduct (31 page)

“If we can’t stop this coup, we need to be thinking about what we do next, how we take back the country. No matter what happens, the nation needs Leascht.”

Once again, the Old Man was demonstrating his penchant for thinking several steps ahead.

“So, I get detained,” Harvath relented, “and then what? I have to concoct some sort of jailbreak?”

“No,” said Carlton. “I have a better plan.”

CHAPTER 50

W
hen the DHS team knocked on his door several hours later, it went down exactly as Chief Justice Leascht’s wife, Virginia, had described their own encounter.

The team was polite but firm. In case there was any doubt as to the seriousness of their visit, they brought a lot of backup. They were extremely well armed and had brought along two armored personnel vehicles. And though he couldn’t see them, he sensed at least two snipers out in the darkness.

It would have been a good fight. Hell, it would have been a great fight, but Carlton had been absolutely clear—no resistance.

Their ruse was very convincing. They even took his vitals and conducted a brief intake survey. It was designed, as best he could tell, for two reasons.

The first was to gain his cooperation—
we’re from the government and we’re here to help you
. The second was to put on a show for the neighbors—
he must be sick, that’s why they came to take him
.

Using a public health crisis as cover for rounding up the people you wanted out of the way was clever. It certainly showed a lot more imagination than just pulling them out of their homes and shooting them in the head. If for no other reason, they got points for style. They even brought an ambulance and in doing so had answered one of his most pressing questions—was he immune? There was no reason to go to all of this trouble if he wasn’t.

The same could be said for Chief Justice Leascht, as well as the mem
bers of Congress who had suddenly popped up on the new Main Core list. You didn’t expend these kinds of resources on people likely to die in the worst global pandemic in history.

But if the people on the Main Core list were immune, how did that happen? Why them and not the President and so many others? He had raised that question with Carlton, as well the question of whether Pierre Damien had fled to Mount Weather. The Old Man was doing all he could to figure out both.

As if there was any doubt that the ambulance was only part of the charade, soon after leaving Bishop’s Gate, their convoy pulled off Mount Vernon Memorial Highway into the parking lot for Grist Mill Park, where a DHS Astar helicopter sat waiting. He had wondered how they were going to maneuver through so much heavy traffic in order to get him to the transit point. Now he had his answer.

When they were taking his vitals, Harvath had asked one of the hazmat-suited men where they were planning on transporting him. “Fort A.P. Hill,” he replied.

“Why?” Harvath had asked. “What’s at Fort A.P. Hill?”

“The hospitals are being overwhelmed. A wellness center has been established there.”

Wellness center, my ass
, Harvath had thought. It was an internment camp.

While Carlton’s contact inside DHS didn’t know anything about Main Core, he did know that FEMA had identified a list of potentially infected citizens who were going to be sent to a supposed field hospital at Fort A.P. Hill, seventy-five miles south of D.C.

When asked how they were going to get there, his contact had explained that they would be going by train from Union Station once the first wave had been assembled.

Harvath was escorted out of the ambulance and handed over to another hazmat-suited crew sitting on board the helicopter.

As the helo lifted off, he looked down onto the phalanx of DHS vehicles already streaming out of the parking lot, onto the next name on their list. He wondered how many other teams there were at this very moment, doing the exact same thing in every state throughout the country. How many other “wellness centers” were out there?

The streets and highways leading in and out of D.C. were jammed-up
rivers of red brake lights as people fled the city or fought to get home. From this elevation, Harvath could see that several fires had broken out. There were too many of them to be accidental. The thin veneer of civilization was stripping away. Looting had begun.

The helicopter landed in front of Union Station. Traffic had been blocked off and barricades erected. Thousands of angry people were attempting to push through. There were families with small children, the elderly. A group of young men had already breached one barricade and were helping lift a man in a wheelchair over it. D.C. and Amtrak Police were overwhelmed. It was a tinderbox and now matches were being struck.

Four uniformed DHS officers with heavy Kevlar vests, respirators, and latex gloves met the helicopter. As soon as they had cleared the rotors, Harvath was told to put his arms out so they could pat him down.

Yelling above the roar of the idling helicopter, one officer shouted to him, “Where’s your paperwork?”

Harvath just looked at him.

“Your paperwork,”
the man repeated. “Where are your papers?”

Realizing Harvath had no idea what he was talking about, the officer ran back to the helicopter and banged on the copilot’s door before they could take off.

Returning with a sheaf of documents, the officer nodded to his colleagues, and they led Harvath inside.

A flow of civilians was being let in, but only if they already held a ticket or a train reservation. They were kept well away from DHS activities.

A long folding table had been set up. Sitting behind it were more DHS officers, masked and gloved.

“Harvath, Scot Thomas,” said the lead DHS officer as he handed over the paperwork. “One
T
in
Scot
.”

The corpulent, ruddy-complexioned officer behind the table accepted the documents and then pointed a temperature gun at Harvath’s head to get a reading.

“Ninety-eight point six,” he said, not even making eye contact.

Harvath’s temperature had dropped back down. Considering how much physical activity he had been engaged in earlier, he hadn’t been surprised to see it slightly elevated previously.

“Any symptoms?” the man continued.

“Any symptoms of what?” Harvath replied.

“Muscle aches, headaches, chills, vomiting, or diarrhea?”

“No. There’s nothing wrong with me. What’s going on?”

“You had contact with a known infected. You’re being transported to a FEMA wellness center for observation.”

“What’s a wellness center?”

“I don’t know,” said the officer.

“For how long?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you at least know who I was exposed to?”

The officer leafed through the paperwork. “It looks like somebody at your office.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, if it’s someone from my office, does that mean everybody I work with is going to this wellness center too?”

“I don’t know,” the man repeated. He then made a couple notes on the paperwork, reached into a box behind him, and removed an oversized campaign style button with a bright blue square in the middle. “Put this on.”

“What is it? Wait, don’t tell me,
you don’t know
.”

“You’re a smartass, huh?” he asked, finally looking Harvath in the eye.

Smiling at him, Harvath replied, “I don’t know.”

“Get him out of here,” the officer snapped, before shouting, “Next!”

Harvath and his entourage had made it only about twenty feet away from the table when the fat processing officer yelled for them to wait and came trundling up behind them. He was already out of breath.

“I gave you the wrong button,” he said, pointing to the one on Harvath’s chest. “Give that to me.”

Harvath unpinned it and handed it over.

“This is yours,” he said, slapping the new button into Harvath’s hand and waddling away.

Harvath turned it over. In place of the blue square, he now had a gold star.

“What’s this mean?” he asked one of the DHS officers standing next to him.

“Stop asking questions and put it on,” the man replied.

Harvath did as he was told.

No sooner had he pinned on the new button than the DHS team made an abrupt left turn and took him toward a completely different part of the train station.

CHAPTER 51

A
mtrak’s ClubAcela lounge had been turned into a high-security, makeshift holding area. There were no windows, it had its own bathrooms, and its limited exits were all covered by heavily armed agents in black tactical gear like those who had shown up to collect him at his house. Harvath looked, but didn’t recognize any of them.

DHS, like every other Federal agency, was a mixed bag of the good, the bad, and the indifferent. He was certain that these men had no idea what Main Core was and the unwitting role they were playing in its implementation. The fact that they were even still at their posts as the virus raged around them spoke volumes about their dedication and professionalism.

After being checked in at the front desk, Harvath was told to help himself to food, water, or coffee. When the train was ready, an announcement would be made. Harvath asked when that might be and of course, the response was “I don’t know.”

He poured himself a cup of coffee and slowly took in the room. Everyone else was wearing the same gold stars. There were a few women, but the crowd was predominantly male. Some were chatting and seemed to know each other. Others seemed to want to keep to themselves. There was a wide range of ages and colors. Harvath found Chief Justice Cameron Leascht toward the back, reading a newspaper, one of the ones trying to keep to himself.

“Judge Leascht?” Harvath asked as he approached.

The man folded the corner of his paper down long enough to examine the stranger, before returning to his article.

Harvath took the seat next to him. “Director McGee sent me.”

Slowly, he turned his head and looked at Harvath.

“Mrs. Leascht called him as soon as you were taken away.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How do I know that you aren’t part of all this?” Leascht asked, pointing at the room with his chin.

“You don’t. You’re going to have to trust me.”

“And why should I trust you?”

“For two reasons,” Harvath replied. “One, it’s my people who discovered the Main Core list McGee warned you about. And two, Mrs. Leascht is waiting for you nearby, and I’m going to get you out of here.”

He now had the judge’s full attention. “Where are we going?”

“Where I wish you would have gone to begin with. Camp Peary.”

The Chief Justice put his paper down. “What’s the plan?”

Harvath was silent for a moment. “We’re still working on it, but when I say it’s time to go, stick close and do everything I tell you.”

The judge began laughing.

“What?” Harvath asked.

“For the last several hours, I’ve been kicking myself for not listening to Bob McGee
and
praying for the Cavalry to come. But as I pictured them bursting through those doors, ‘We’re still working on the plan’ wasn’t what I thought they’d say.”

Harvath instantly liked Leascht. “What would you want them to say?”

“I don’t know,” the judge replied. “Something from the movies like ‘Navy SEALs, we’re here to get you out.’ ”

Now it was Harvath’s turn to laugh.

“What?” Leascht asked.

Harvath winked at him.

“You’re a SEAL?”

“And I’m here to get you out. By the way, that movie was filled with inaccuracies.”

“What was wrong with it?”

“For starters, SEALs are much better looking.”

Leascht smiled and Harvath was glad that he had kept his sense of humor. Extracting a panic-stricken hostage was a nightmare. If the Chief Justice could continue to keep his spirits up and along with them, his wits, then that would help tilt the odds in their favor.

The judge hadn’t eaten, so Harvath prepared a plate of sandwiches and returned with a couple bottles of water. As he ate, Harvath filled him in on everything they had learned so far.

“Salus populi suprema lex esto,”
Leascht said. “Cicero. The good of the people should be the supreme law.”

“Inter arma enim silent leges,”
Harvath replied, reciting a familiar Latin phrase. “In times of violence, the law falls mute.”

Leascht shook his head. “In times of violence, the law
remains
mute. Silence too often helps give rise to violence. As Dietrich Bonhoeffer said, ‘Silence in the face of evil is itself evil. Not to speak is to speak. Not to act is to act.’ ”

Harvath was about to reply, when the overhead speaker crackled to life and the “Gold Stars” were alerted to the departure of their train.

Harvath looked at Judge Leascht. “It’s time to act.”

•••

Moving down the platform, Harvath’s head was on a swivel. He took in the position of every guard, every would-be passenger.

Some passengers seemed unconcerned about what might await them and continued to chat amiably. Others shuffled slowly, subconsciously resigned to what could lay ahead.

He counted the columns as they passed each one by. It was the correct platform, so it should be any moment now.

As he caught sight of the designated column, Harvath began to slow. He bent at the waist as if he was in pain.

“Are you okay?” Judge Leascht asked.

“Get ready,” Harvath said. “Stay behind me. Move when I move.”

Leascht nodded.

Nearing the column, Harvath made ready. Anywhere else, he would
have felt like he had this under control. Headshots. Pop them and drop them. But not here, not DHS officers. They were not his enemy. These were good men and women just doing their job. Linda Landon, though, was another story. He would have no compunction about killing her. He’d kill her and Pierre Damien in a heartbeat, but none of these officers deserved to die. He hoped they felt the same way about him.

Reaching the designated column, Harvath paused, feigning nausea. He leaned against a garbage can, pushed back its flap, and prepared to get sick. The judge put a comforting hand on his back.

As soon as Harvath’s fingers touched the inside of the lid, he swore.
Where was the rest of it?
He was supposed to exfil the Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court with only two smoke grenades?
There had to be more
.

Dropping his hands, he realized the weapon he had requested was sitting right there, beneath a layer of newspaper. It was inside a styrofoam take-out container along with four loaded magazines.

He shoved the spare mags into his pocket and charged the weapon. He counted at least six uniformed DHS agents and four tactical officers along the platform.

Looking up at the judge, he said, “Ready?”

“Ready,” Leascht replied.

Pulling the pins from the smoke grenades, Harvath tossed them in opposite directions and then leapt off the platform onto the tracks. Leascht was right behind him. He was much older than Harvath, but he moved fast enough.

They jumped onto the next platform and into a waiting train. Activating the emergency switch on the opposite doors, Harvath helped Leascht down onto the track area, and they kept moving.

Over the noise of the trains, he could hear men shouting. They were somewhere behind them and closing.

Harvath and Leascht crossed another platform and then another. When they came to the next train, they got on. But instead of opening up the opposite doors and jumping down again, they moved through the cars, parallel to the tracks.

Harvath removed his coat and had Leascht do the same, stuffing them down into a garbage can. He untucked his shirt to help hide his weapon.

Bursting into the next car, Harvath surprised two Amtrak cops who were doing a sweep. Their guns came out just as fast as his did.

“Drop your weapon!” one of them yelled. “Do it now! Drop your weapon!”

“U.S. Marshall,” Harvath replied. “You lower
your
weapons.”

“ID. Let’s see it,” the second cop said.

“I’m his ID,” Leascht stated, as he leaned from behind Harvath. “I’m Cameron Leascht.”

“The Supreme Court Justice?” the first cop asked.

“Yes.”

“They didn’t tell us that’s who they’re looking for,” the cop replied as he lowered his weapon. “DHS only put out a description.”

“That’s because they don’t want you to know,” Harvath replied lowering his weapon.

As he did, cop number two lowered his as well and asked, “What the hell is going on?”

Harvath played it as honestly as he could. “Somebody in the government has targeted Chief Justice Leascht for assassination. I have to get him out of here, but DHS is standing in our way. Can you help us?”

The cops looked at each other and the first one said, “None of it has felt right. People being forced onto trains to take them to God-knows-where? I haven’t liked any of this from the beginning. What do you want us to do?”

“Put out a call and draw them off. Someplace on the other side of the station.”

“I can do that,” said the cop.

“Thank you,” Harvath replied as he moved the judge past the officers. “Give us thirty seconds to reach the end of the train.”

The cop nodded and Harvath and Leascht picked up their pace. When they got to the final car, Harvath stopped for a moment to allow the judge to catch his breath.

“When we step off the train, just keep your head down and stick with me, okay?”

Leascht nodded and Harvath peered out one of the windows. The coast was as clear as it was going to be. They had caught a break with those two cops, but he didn’t expect to get that lucky again. Only a fool would think that Murphy didn’t ply his trade in D.C. as well.

“Let’s go,” Harvath said.

Stepping off the train, they saw two DHS officers running in the direction the Amtrak police had sent them. Leascht kept his head down as instructed and kept pace with Harvath as he moved.

Every time Harvath thought he had a clear path, though, he would catch sight of a DHS officer and be forced to change course. The last thing he wanted was an altercation, but it was beginning to look almost impossible to avoid. Then, they found an exit.

Facing Union Station Drive Northeast, and set into the stone arches of the building’s façade, was a wall of two-story panes of glass. Pulling his pistol, he aimed high and began firing.

The sounds of gunshots and the shattering of glass sent the throngs of people outside into a panic. The barricades collapsed and the crowd began running in all directions.

Harvath grabbed Leascht, and they ran out of the building and onto the sidewalk.

They raced across the street and leapt over the stone railing onto the sidewalk that ran downhill toward F Street and the Securities and Exchange Commission.

Up ahead, he could see 2nd Street. That was where Chase Palmer would be waiting. He couldn’t tell if the judge was going to make it. He was breathing heavily and appeared pained.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he replied. “Keep going.”

Harvath slowed his pace.

“I told you,” the judge repeated. “I’m fine.”

“It’s a long block.”

“All the more reason to move faster,” Leascht said, picking up the pace.

At 2nd Street they turned left and found Palmer exactly where he had said he would be, parked in the alley on the opposite side. They could hear sirens nearby. Palmer waved for them to hurry up.

They were less than fifteen yards away, moving down the middle of the street, when Palmer sprang from his truck with his rifle and seated the stock against his shoulder.

Harvath didn’t need to look at what the man was going to shoot. He
could hear the siren right behind him and see the reflection of the vehicle’s blue strobes bouncing off the glass SEC building to their left.

“Move, move, move!” Harvath shouted, guiding Justice Leascht out of the street and up onto the sidewalk.

As soon as they were clear, Palmer began to press his trigger. The rounds pounded into the engine block and left front tire of the DHS Crown Victoria. Immediately, the officer threw the vehicle in reverse and backed up as fast as he could.

It had bought them some time, but not much. “Let’s go!” Palmer shouted.

Harvath and the judge ran the rest of the way to Palmer and jumped in his SUV.

Palmer slammed his SUV into reverse and screamed down the alley. In a small parking area, he spun the vehicle around so he could continue forward and then headed for 3rd Street.

Exploding from the alley, he clipped two parked cars as he pulled a hard right turn and went south.

They blew through the intersection at E Street, headed toward D.

“Where are you going?” Harvath asked.

“They had to move to the alternate extraction point. Someone stumbled upon them.”

Murphy
, Harvath thought to himself. “We’re going to need to get off this street then. It becomes one way, coming at us after D.”

“Roger that,” Palmer replied, pressing on the accelerator even harder.

At D, he slammed on his brakes and skidded into the intersection, pulling hard on the wheel to avoid a collision.

“I hear sirens, but I can’t see where any of them are,” he continued as he weaved through the traffic.

“Don’t worry about that,” said Harvath as they passed the Heritage Foundation and Massachusetts Avenue. “I’ll watch for cops, you watch the road. Louisiana Avenue is coming up on your left. Take it.”

Palmer did as Harvath instructed. When they crossed 1st Street NW, Harvath saw several blue light bars racing up Constitution Avenue in an attempt to cut them off.

“Now I see them,” he said. “Eight o’clock.”

“This is going to be close.”

They hit Constitution and turned right with such speed that Palmer drifted into oncoming traffic and sideswiped three cars. DHS was now right on their tail.

“Make a left,” Harvath ordered at the next intersection and Palmer swung onto 3rd Street.

They had barely made it a block before the traffic in both directions ground to a halt.

“Right turn! Right turn!” Harvath shouted. “Use the mall.”

The National Mall was a park that stretched just under two miles from the Capitol steps to the Lincoln Memorial. With 3rd Street in their rearview mirror, there were five more thoroughfares that cut across the park in different places. Palmer didn’t slow down for any of them.