The White House: A Flynn Carroll Thriller (33 page)

“Look at that,” Fielder yelled.

Spurting blood from the ruins of its upper body, it turned toward Fielder and fired at him, missing but causing him to fly across the table. He took Secretary of Defense Cornyn to the floor.

Total pandemonium. People fought each other to get under the table, to run deeper into the facility, to go past the attackers and out into the hall.

“Flynn,” Bill shouted, “fix it, fix it!”

Cissy and another backup Flynn did not know threw themselves onto the president. The three of them disappeared beneath the table edge.

“What's happening?” Putin's translator said. “What is this, is that a coup there? President Greene, we must know.”

“Military coup,” Lorna shouted.

Even if Flynn had not been here, he realized, this would have happened. All along, the real plan had been to frighten Putin into firing first because he thought that the U.S. military had taken over. He would quickly see that the consequences of such a takeover would be impossible to predict, and he would launch.

So this was why all the assassination attempts against Flynn. He was probably the only person alive who could restore order in this room fast enough to stop the Russian launch.

He took out three more of the creatures with the last three bullets in the Secret Service agent's gun, then vaulted the table amid a hail of bullets and got the assault rifle from the one that had fallen first. He pulled Fielder off Secretary Cornyn.

He also knew that Lorna's cry had been intended to frighten Putin into launching, and that she would do the same thing again any moment now.

He used the weapon to clean up the rest of the intruders, who fell in a writhing heap. “They're still dangerous,” he shouted. “They don't die like we do. Stay away from them.” He turned to the spot where the president had been sitting. “Bill, you need to tell Putin there's no problem here.”

A voice from the communications center said, “Russian missiles preparing to launch. We have launches.”

“How many?” Greene shouted.

“Flight of six. Calculating impact points.”

“
Bill, launch Minuteman!
” Lorna's howl tore through the air.

“Missile explodes.”

The translator's voice filled the room. “An unauthorized launch,” he said.

Flynn saw Greene press the mute button on the phone. “Activate Sky Dragon.”

“Dragon tracking three. Tracking four. Missile explodes.”

“Vladimir, we're back in the saddle,” Greene said.

“Sir, I cannot understand,” the translator said.

“Things are under control,” Cissy said.

“Under control, yes,” Bill said.

“Dragon intercepts two warheads. Detonations. Missiles neutralized.”

“What do we have?”

The translator said, “We have destroyed the two of our missiles you did not. Mr. Putin says please do not launch. We are standing down.”

“Russian silos closing,” the NRO technician said over the intercom from the communications center.

The secretary of defense, who was covered with the reeking “blood” of a biorobot, began having convulsions. Medical personnel appeared.

“Don't touch those bodies,” Flynn said. “They're going to be booby-trapped. Also, they use reptile genes to give them durability. They won't be entirely dead for hours.”

The army chief of staff, who had been sitting like a stone, now came to his feet and shouted, “What is this? I want this explained! Now!”

“In good time, General,” Diana said.

“NORAD report commences,” the loudspeaker intoned. “This is Space Command. We have a missile warhead on track to impact due east of Minot, North Dakota. Direct hit on Malmstrom AFB.”

“Get all personnel underground,” Flynn said. “There will be no blast effect.”

“What in hell are these bombs about?” another member of the Joint Chiefs shouted.

“They're designed to eradicate life without destroying infrastructure.”

“The Russians'—”

“All of them. Ours. The Israelis'. Possibly some of the Iranians'.”

“Pakistan missiles being run out. Indian missiles being run out.”

“Get Islamabad on the line. Vladimir, can you hear me?”

“We're on.”

“Call Delhi. Please try to spread calm.”

“Yes, I will do it now.” It was Putin himself. He spoke good English. As a gesture of trust, he had dispensed with his translator.

“Prime Minister Aman is on the line,” one of the young people in communications said.

“Mr. Greene,” the Pakistani prime minister said, “why are they doing this to us?”

“The Iranians fired a missile at Israel. I think the Indians are afraid that the conflict will widen. Mr. Putin is talking to them.”

“We cannot risk this. We must destroy their missile delivery capability.”

“If you fire, they fire. Your cities will be ruined.”

“As will theirs! I cannot risk them firing first.”

“You can respond after they fire.”

“I'm not sure we will be fast enough. It's only seven minutes.”

Greene looked from face to face, his eyes stopping on Flynn for just an extra moment. “Mr. Prime Minister, I tell you this in confidence: If they fire, we will take them out. No warheads will reach you.”

“What is this? I know nothing of this.”

“A system we have in space. It is already set to target their missiles.”

There was silence on the line, then a faint click.

“He's consulting his generals,” Secretary of State Costigan said.

Greene looked to Boxleitner. “Background me.”

“General Nazzimuda will recommend standing down.”

“You're certain?”

He held up a phone. “He just texted me.”

The line clicked. “If we stand down, we want access to this system. We want to understand it so that we know it works.”

NRO director Fielder had gone as pale as dead smoke. “Sir—”

“There will be time for that later,” Greene said smoothly. “Right now, you can take the word of the President of the United States for it.”

“You guarantee that you will explain it to us?”

“Absolutely.”

“Very well, then we wait. If they do not fire, we do not.”

“You won't regret this, Mr. Prime Minster. You're now a national hero; you have saved millions of Pakistani lives.”

“Or thrown them away.” He disconnected.

Flynn knew that Aeon would be listening to all of this. They would be hearing the apparent failure of their plan. So they would act. But how? When?

The world was still a time bomb, just ticking in a new, as-yet-undiscovered way.

“Mr. President,” Fielder said, “what is this system? Is it Space Command's baby?”

“We don't have it,” Air Chief Dexter said.

“Nobody has it,” the president said.

Silence again, this time total. More gray faces.

“What can I say,” Greene added. “I took a calculated risk.”

Putin returned to the line. “The Indians see the Pakistani silos closing. They are standing down.”

Greene looked around the room. “I think we've returned to stability, am I right?”

Heads were nodding. The secretary of defense said, “Permission to move to
DEFCON
3 and inform the country.”

Greene said to Putin, “We're going to
DEFCON
3 at this time.”

“We are standing our mobile units down.” They were the most serious threat the Russians possessed, mobile, solid-fueled ICBMs that were difficult to track as they moved along the back roads of Siberia. “You'll see them all back at base.”

“Will you please open discussions with the Iranians? They need the Supreme Leader to be gone.”

“We cannot interfere like that.”

“Of course not, but please do!”

There was the slightest of chuckles. “Mr. President, we must meet sometime. I have an intelligence assessment that speaks not so well of you, but I must say, I am impressed with your performance today.”

“As am I with yours.”

“I have some practice.”

They closed the line.

One of the seconds began applauding, then another, and another. The front of the table did the same. Boxleitner went to his feet, followed by Fielder, followed by the others.

Flynn applauded, too. He had seen dopey, ill-informed, and ill-prepared Bill Greene transform into a president before his eyes. In fact, a great president. The power of the office—its magic—had found the best of the man.

Bill stood, too. After a moment, he did something a president rarely does: He lifted his right hand in salute to his team.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

AS THE
PEOC was being cleared of debris and remains, and the various staffers were leaving, Flynn noticed that Lorna Greene was not present. When he asked Ginny Bowers, he was told that she was in the Residence, lying down.

Not unreasonable, but it was also true that Flynn hadn't seen her leave. He liked to know where people were, and made a note to confirm her presence in her room.

The president had been hustled out by Secret Service agents, but only after Flynn had made certain that Bill recognized each one of them personally. Later, everybody in the White House operation would be temperature-tested, and then, as part of the deeper investigation into the degree that Aeon had penetrated the government, DNA-tested as well, and scanned for implants.

In the meantime, if Flynn had his way—and he was determined that he would—the presidency would be isolated from its own support system. The only people who would have access to Bill Greene would be those he knew personally. This meant that, of the 708 staffers on the presidential roster, exactly 54 would be allowed into his presence, and then only after the full test sequence had been completed.

Now just Flynn and Diana were left in the PEOC. The bodies had been pushed up against a wall. They were waiting for a mortuary team that was coming in from Langley.

“Did you see Lorna leave?”

Diana frowned. “I'm not sure.”

“Where's the football?”

“You don't think—”

“Where is it?”

“Colonel Whittier took it out with the president. That I did see.”

“I'm gonna put eyes on Lorna.”

“You need to get cleaned up before you go over to the Residence.”

“This situation is still extremely dangerous.”

“We just won! We beat Aeon.
You
did, Flynn!”

He went out into the corridor, then up the stairs that led to the East Wing. Whenever he was out of sight of others, he ran. Otherwise, he moved as fast as he could without looking like he was on the attack. Which he was. These people thought that they'd quieted a storm. They did not understand the true nature of that storm, and he had not had the chance to explain the peril to them.

As he hurried into the Residence, he was confused to hear a cheerful female voice jabbering on about the Truman portrait. A moment later, he saw a clutch of people ahead of him and realized that it had not been closed to visitors, and that tourists were being led through as they were every day. What had they done during the DEFCON 5? Were they even aware that it had been declared?

As he passed through the group, people looked up at the tall, pale man in the soiled jeans and pullover. He still stank; he could see that in their faces. A cell phone came out, but it only got a shot of his back. Otherwise he would have crushed it.

He headed for the Grand Staircase. At this point the Secret Service was no longer in his face. That was good, because he was real tired of them. They couldn't be blamed for having been infiltrated by Aeon. In fact, they'd done their job heroically, but still, he could not afford to be slowed down even a little.

There were two agents on the staircase. “Where's POTUS?” he asked.

“West Wing.”

That would mean the office suite. The Oval was used mostly for ceremonial occasions—bill signings and such. Receiving damage assessments from Israel and Malmstrom, which is what he would be doing right now, was hardly that.

“And Whittier?”

“With him. Orders are to remain in sight.”

That was good. As it should be. The football must remain in sight of Bill and out of sight of Lorna.

The White House was generally quiet, but there had been tourists downstairs. Up here, the silence was total. A single Secret Service agent was stationed in the Central Hall.

“Where is everybody?” Flynn asked.

“Nobody here.”

“The First Lady's not up here?”

“No, sir. Nobody is.”

He vaulted the stairs and headed for the Secret Service office, under the Oval. As he moved through the Residence, then into the West Wing, he noted everybody he passed. Aeon had made a mistake with the body temperature of its biologicals, but that would be corrected, and maybe it could be done remotely; Flynn could not be sure. Knowing Aeon, it might not even have been a mistake. It might have been a deception, a lie intended to hide some greater lie.

The office was crowded, and Flynn had to push his way past some unwilling people. He spotted Simon Forde and shoved his way closer.

“You've sure as hell arrived,” Ford snarled.

“Clear the room.”

“Excuse me?”

“Clear the room. Now!”

“OK!”

“Gentlemen, go to your stations,” Flynn said. “If you don't have an assignment yet, find a hole. No clumping up—I want the whole facility covered!” He added, “I need two technicians who can work the surveillance system.”

“That's classified.”

“You do this! Now!”

Forde called two men back.

“I want you to roll back to when people were leaving the PEOC. Find the First Lady, then follow her. Track her to her present location.”

As he waited, he realized that they were doing it in real time, which was far too slow. “Excuse me,” he said to one of them. The kid turned, his eyebrows raised as if to say, “How dare you interrupt me, I'm White House.” Flynn hauled him out of his chair and tossed him against the far wall. There was a rocking crash and an alarmed young cry. Flynn didn't look; he didn't have time. He took his place at the console.