At quarter to two that morning, Chief of Staff Earl Sanders sat in his West Wing corner
office and stifled a yawn that made his green eyes water. He stared blearily at stacks of
unread reports engulfing his computer and realized he hadn’t even made a dent in one pile.
Terrorists had bombed San Francisco’s TransAmerica Building and Manhattan’s
Holland Tunnel last month, killing hundreds. Since that day, Earl’s horror had deepened
into a very personal nightmare. He woke every morning to watch President Sid Mahoney,
his longtime boss and friend, spiral farther into delusion and despair.
He grabbed a beer out of the small refrigerator in the corner, then dug for the stash of
beef jerky in the bottom drawer of the desk. The thought of tomorrow, or was it today
already—made him wince. The strikes had affected Sid so acutely he seemed paralyzed,
clinging to flimsy diplomatic solutions over common sense.
But the worst was listening to him rant about an evil, far-reaching conspiracy.
According to Sid, the real enemy was not the Islamic terrorists who had attacked in two U.S.
cities. The real enemy had spies and agents everywhere. He didn’t even trust his core
group of advisors, the National Security Council, to be immune from some evil group he
privately called the Powers That Be. He insisted that he was given doctored intelligence
reports, exaggerated or downplayed threat assessments, and that key personnel had been
compromised into robots. And Earl worried that Sid was losing his mind.
Through the open door, he could hear quiet in the West Wing. The staff had gone home.
Debating how to structure Sid’s schedule to minimize stress and contact with hostile
members of Congress, he lifted a worn, signed baseball glove that weighed down the tallest
stack of documents. Lost in thought, he swiveled the chair and fired a tennis ball repeatedly
against the wall that separated his office suite from that of the vice president. Then he heard
a thud in response; she threw what sounded like a heeled shoe.
He smiled wryly and tossed the glove to his desk. Of course the vice president was still
here. Zella was also deeply worried about Sid. Her reaction was to work even harder, as if
that were possible. She had been Earl’s good friend since they were both in their early
twenties, when they were both peons working for Congressmen on the Hill.
Two decades later, she was a political powerhouse. She and Sid were a potent, effective
team. Yet even they had argued lately. Earl knew she fought privately for military action
against the terrorists and Gulf countries that allowed them to hide in their borders. Her
concern also voiced Earl’s biggest fear; that Sid’s feeble response invited more terrorism
and made the nation vulnerable to further attack.
He heard distant footfalls. Definitely the sound of running. In one move, he was out of
his chair and into the hallway.
A Secret Service agent came charging toward him, bellowing that the president was
shot. Almost three hours ago, Earl had taken Sid up to the residence for their ritual evening
scotch and cigar before Sid retired for the night. He shook his head in disbelief, saying, “He
was shot in his bed?”
“Sir, he took one of his late night walks. All I know is that he’s on his way to Walter Reed
Hospital.”
After a stunned pause, Earl said, “I’m on my way.”
“No Sir. You and the vice president are going underground.”
While he protested, more agents barged into the vice president’s office suite. Zella
emerged, looking dazed. Her blouse sleeves were rolled up around her elbows, her wavy
auburn hair loose and disheveled. Even barefoot, which was her preference, she was
inherently elegant and almost as tall as the men who surrounded her. An agent clutched her
shoes and suit jacket.
When she met Earl’s gaze, her sapphire eyes looked wide and spooked. And for a
moment, he felt torn between loyalties, not knowing whether to stay with her or go to Sid.
Then he realized Sid would only tell him to go back immediately to help Zella.
As he turned and allowed Secret Service to herd him toward the elevator that would take
them underground, he heard her ask, “How did the president get out of here? Who the hell
would just let him leave?”
An agent said, “Ma’am, it’s my understanding that he came down almost an hour ago.
The lead agent at the residence must’ve thought they had adequate protection for an off-the-
record movement. He went with the president.”
With a deepening frown, Zella darted Earl a look. Not only did Secret Service allow Sid to
go, but someone on the inside had also let the attackers know when and where he was
going.
Suddenly, the dark suits that he had come to associate with her safety seemed
menacing. He grabbed her shoes and jacket from an agent and waved Zella into the waiting
elevator. While she typed a quick code and allowed the iris scan needed to start the car, he
followed her in and blocked the others, saying lightly, “Thanks, we’ll be all right now.”
They dropped through sixty feet of steel reinforced concrete. He breathed out into the
silence, certain that Sid had gone to his favorite thinking spot. He pictured him walking
along the Reflecting Pools and enjoying the tranquil autumn night, having his usual heart to
heart with Lincoln, and then being gunned down. Suppressing a shudder, he glanced at
Zella. She was staring straight ahead.
Without moving her gaze, she said, “I need you to watch my back. It’s going to be total
chaos. People will be giving the military orders and executing intelligence directives. Help
me make sure nobody takes this opportunity to work a private agenda.”
He nodded and took a bracing breath, then noticed her golden hair clip riding on the
shoulder pad of her blouse, where she usually kept it when she was deep into work and
didn’t want to lose track of it. He reached over and unclipped it, handing it to her before he
set her shoes on the floor. She pulled her hair back in the clip and bent to wriggle her feet
into her shoes as the elevator opened to a long, brightly lit, white tile-lined hallway.
They crossed the hall to a thick steel door. A soldier standing guard saluted her, then
glanced at security cameras with a quick nod. The massive steel door glided open.
As Zella walked into the nerve center of the Situation Room’s underground compound,
the military personnel in fatigues snapped to attention. Earl glanced at wall-sized screens
with maps of the world that showed U.S. forces and the status of potential threats against
them. Wall screens also showed near real-time satellite feeds of barren desert landscapes,
stark mountains and bustling cities where everyone in sight wore traditional Muslim attire.
Banks of computers flashed classified dispatches. Behind desks staggered for privacy,
analysts pored over intelligence and spy satellite photographs. The ceilings were low, and
the air smelled faintly of disinfectant and mold.
This subterranean complex was staffed twenty-four hours, seven days a week with top
clearance military experts. Earl had dubbed it the Crisis Pit after the first time they came
down to run a drill. From here, a president could launch a nuclear strike or monitor an
invasion via satellite feeds. And as if anyone could forget America’s number one enemy, a
grainy picture of the terrorist’s leader Abdallah ibn Fatah hung pinned to every cubicle wall.
Fatah had claimed responsibility for the Holland Tunnel and TransAmerica bombings and
provided proof that his network was behind the attacks.
A full Colonel met them and saluted, then said, “Madam Vice President, Mr. Sanders, I’m
Colonel Davies, senior officer on this shift. The NSC members have been contacted, and
they will arrive shortly. This way, please.”
They followed him into the executive conference room, a soundproof, bulletproof glass
enclosure at one end of the complex’s main room. Earl hung Zella’s jacket on the back of
her usual chair to the right of Sid’s seat at the head of the long, rectangular conference
table. A soldier began passing copies of the latest intelligence and analyses to each empty
seat around the table to prepare for the NSC’s arrival.
To the Colonel, Zella said, “Where’s Fatah? Were there any unusual asset movements,
like aircraft deployment or border fortification that shows another country knew the
shooting was going to go down?”
“Ma’am, Fatah was last reported in Iran, but that intel is a few days old. As you well
know, it’s been a challenge keeping real-time information on his location. Preliminary
reports show no indication that another nation prepared for the attack on the president.”
Earl saw Zella’s shoulders relax just slightly. She said, “Good. Let’s talk threat
assessment until the NSC gets here.”
While she spoke with the Colonel, Earl stopped a soldier he recognized from the days
that they had spent underground in the aftermath of last month’s bombings. “Hey Franco,
we need a pair of the vice president’s reading glasses. And make sure her husband is flown
back immediately from wherever he is. We need to alert Congress about the shooting in
order of chain of command.” Then he averted his eyes, feeling like he betrayed Sid as he
said, “We also need to get hold of a Justice. We need to be prepared to swear her in if the
worst does happen.”
“Sir, he’s already on his way.” A large screen on the one solid wall of the glassed in
conference room distracted them both. Words scrolled in bright blue: DOCTOR
ELLISON…WALTER REED HOSPITAL
Colonel Davies hit a red button on a telephone. The doctor’s voice blared over built-in
speakers. “Evening, Madam Vice President. I’m Doctor Ellison, chief surgeon on duty. The
president’s cause of death was a gunshot wound. The first shot went through his neck at
the base of his throat. The second round entered the nasal cavity and exited through the
occipital lobe. That was the fatal wound. Be aware that the fourth digit on his left hand was
severed and removed from the scene.”
“He’s dead?” Zella’s voice sounded small and bewildered. “And they took his finger?”
“Yes Ma’am. We’ll send a scrambled fax with a detailed report as we complete each of
the six autopsies. We lost everyone on his detail except the driver and his partner, who were
both in the car.”
“Six autopsies,” she repeated softly.
She cleared her throat as Earl still tried to focus past two words linked in a staggering
combination: president and death.
Sid couldn’t be dead. Yet in the background, he could hear Davies confirming the
permanent transfer of power and arranging the mostly ritualistic swearing-in ceremony. Sid
was not coming back. Even Zella, a master at hiding emotions, looked downright ill.
He wiped his damp palms on his pants and stared down at the table and a plaque used
in video conferencing: President Sidney F. Mahoney. He bit the inside of his cheek until he
tasted blood. Twenty years he had spent at Sid’s side, a wild ride that led from a crowded,
dingy congressional office clear up to the White House. It was over. Sid was gone.
Then his gaze rested on Zella’s pale, taut face. She was only forty-four years old. This
would be a brutal transition for the first female President of the United States. And worse,
the country was still reeling from the recent terrorist attacks.
Locking away a tangled knot of anger and grief, he searched her blank gaze, saying
quietly, “As soon as the NSC gets here, we’ll film the swearing-in so we can air it when we’
re ready to go public with the news. For now, we’ll release a statement saying he was taken
to the hospital for undisclosed emergency care.”
“No. I’m not starting out with a lie. Tell them he went on an off-the-record movement and
that his detail was ambushed.”
He opened his mouth to protest, then stopped. “All right, it’s your call. We’ll hold a press
conference in the morning. You’ll give a statement and turn it over to the FBI and someone
good from Secret Service. How’s that sound?”
When she nodded dully, he gave her limp arm a quick, firm squeeze. She closed her
eyes. As she opened them again, she wore a mask of serene determination.
Flashing lights above the main door signaled a breach in lockdown mode. The door slid
open and the White House national security advisor entered. Zella murmured, “Good.
Dirkan’s here.”
Earl wished it were anyone else. Pierce Dirkan was in his late forties, tall, dark, and good-
looking, a recent widower who came from wealthy European nobility, and educated
alongside the global elite of financial dynasties and future kings. He spoke fluent Arabic and
had fantastic connections all over the Middle East. He had proved himself an enormous
asset to Sid’s administration and a genius at his job, but Earl couldn’t stand him. He didn’t
know why his dislike for Dirkan ran so deep any more than he could figure out why Sid and
Zella trusted the man so completely.
Visibly shaken, Dirkan hesitated in the conference room doorway, looking at
Zella.
In answer to his unspoken question, she said, “He’s gone.”
Dirkan sat heavily at the table. He bowed his head, and Earl heard several raspy breaths.
Then Dirkan lifted his head and met Earl’s gaze. “I am so sorry,” he said, “I know what Sid
meant to you.” His dark blue eyes looked bright with fury as he added, “Zella, I don’t know
how this happened. I don’t know if we missed intelligence that someone was planning this
assassination, but I will find out.”
With a crisp shake of her head, she yanked her jacket off the chair and put it on. “That
can wait. I need to know what’s going to happen next.”
The door opened for Admiral Johnson, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, a lean,
muscular man, made up of sharp angles and keen eyes. Earl knew he led survival retreats
for fun, teaching soldiers which bugs to eat and how to sleep naked in snow. He watched
the Admiral come inside warily, eyeing Zella as if he expected her to burst into tears or
implode. The Admiral was not going to be happy about having a woman in charge of his
military, but Earl also knew she wouldn’t particularly care.
Returning his habitual salute, she straightened her posture to greet the rest of the NSC
when they came inside the conference room. As she did, an innately commanding presence
fell around her like a cloak. Earl had seen powerful people treat her instinctively with respect
long before the White House. Still, he studied the NSC for warning signs or hints of
insubordination.
The Secretary of Defense stood next to the Admiral, clutching a rumpled suit coat,
looking numb and totally lost. Circles of sweat ringed the armpits of his shirt. Corning was a
brilliant, sweaty man whom Sid had appointed to streamline the Pentagon. Instead of
finding areas for improvement, Corning got sucked into their world of cryptic acronyms and
dazzling weapons programs.
Earl’s gaze rested briefly on the Director of Central Intelligence, a figurehead who
excelled at smiling for cameras. Sid nominated him in a compromise with the Deputy DCI,
who ran the show quite well but shunned the spotlight. The scrawny, owl-like Pfau didn’t
mumble five words per meeting. Now, Pfau squinted at Zella like he was trying to remember
who she was, and Earl made a mental note to get the Deputy DCI in to brief her as soon as
possible.
Last to arrive was Secretary of State Sappelle, appearing neat and composed, as if there
were nothing unusual about this nocturnal, subterranean gathering. Yet Earl knew he would
be seriously stressed. Sid had given him countless chances to diplomatically pressure Gulf
governments to arrest Fatah. He obviously hoped to have the same pull with Zella; he stood
strategically next to Dirkan, whom everyone knew she listened to and trusted.
Everyone stood in awkward silence, looking grimly at Zella. She said, “Well, gentlemen,
here we are. I’m sure each of you will do his best. Not just for me, but for our country and
Sid’s memory.”
A knock on the door interrupted the bobbing heads and sincere murmurs. Franco
poked his head in and said, “Madam Vice President, we have a justice ready to swear you
in. Sirs, your presence is required.”
Zella took the lead, and the NSC filed out after her. Earl trailed a few steps behind the
group as they passed through an unmarked door and down a narrow hallway painted
battleship gray.
Pushing through a heavy double door, he glanced at a sound stage containing a mock
Oval Office, complete with a replica of Sid’s desk and the photographs of his family. Behind
the desk, drawn curtains hid the fact that there were no windows. A professional television
camera on a tripod pointed toward the stage, and snaking wires led off to a manned editing
and video control room. In here, the president could broadcast live from the safety of the
Situation Room while citizens believed he or she was above ground just like the rest of
them.
A staffer walked toward Zella with a makeup kit and hair spray. Earl stopped her and
said, “Keep it minimal. I don’t want the vice president looking ready for some pageant.”
Keeping his gaze straight to avoid the desk’s pictures, he walked past the stage, nodding a
greeting to the soldier in charge.
He stood off to the side and watched Zella and the NSC file up on to the stage. A flurry of
controversy erupted over who should stand where, which she pointedly ignored, and Earl
was glad no one seemed to think he should join them on the stage.
Then he overheard a staffer ask quietly, “What about the first lady?”
“No,” someone else answered. “They sedated her after they gave her the news.”
With a guilty start, Earl realized he hadn’t even thought about Sid’s widow. She would
be a mess. They had been married for over forty years. He shifted his weight uncomfortably,
then focused on Zella. The cut of her suit pants made her seem even taller. Good. Her suit
jacket looked wrinkled. He debated sending for a change of clothes, then decided against it.
The scene shouldn’t be slick and clean.
The oath of office cue cards came up, and the camera’s red recording light blinked on. A
Justice held out a worn, leather Bible and said, “Please place your left hand on the Bible
and raise your right hand.”
Zella did as he asked, then said, “I, Zella Anne Brooks, do solemnly swear that I will
faithfully execute the Office of the President of the United States.” Earl leaned against the
wall with his arms folded, listening to Zella recite the rest of the oath in her strong speech
voice. He felt like he was watching the filming of a TV show, with cast members he knew all
too well. When she finished, a few of the staff huddled in the booth to assess the replay. He
didn’t have to see the recording. Experience told him it would be fine.
Seeing thumbs up from the control room, Zella turned stiffly and left the stage. Earl
noticed she avoided the desk and its pictures as he had. He brought up the rear of the
somber procession marching back to the main room.
As Zella and the NSC began filing into the adjacent conference room, a tall, elderly man
with a solid head of silver hair came inside through the Situation Room’s steel access door.
Earl halted when he recognized Andrew Mofford, White House legal counsel and Sid’s
good friend. Sid had given him a special pass that allowed him carte blanche in the
compound; the legendary attorney and Beltway power broker had enormous clout in their
party. He had also pressured unions and key special interests to their side, turning the
close election for them. Earl’s respect for Mofford was tinged with awe and gratitude, and
he knew Zella felt the same. She ducked back out of the conference room the moment she
spotted him.
Mofford’s steep forehead was lined with worry and grief. He nodded a gloomy greeting
to Earl, then gripped Zella’s shoulder and lifted his silvery eyebrows. “Zella, my dear. How
are you surviving?”
The rest of their conversation was lost to Earl; Mofford steered Zella into an empty
cubicle to talk in private. Earl pretended to sort papers while he watched this critical
encounter on the sly. Without Mofford’s backing, she would have a hard time
accomplishing anything with Congress. She would also have no chance in hell during next
year’s election. He watched her speak earnestly, holding Mofford’s penetrating gaze with a
deferential tilt to her auburn head. When they shook hands and came back, she threw Earl a
quick nod to tell him she had secured Mofford’s support.
Colonel Davies intercepted Mofford. “Sir, records show President Mahoney made one
private call last night. That was to you.”
In a quiet, deeply resonant voice, he said, “Yes, he called at around ten. We spoke in
general terms about the terrorism and election. I could tell he was distraught, but he did not
elaborate, beyond the obvious. It is unfortunate he made no mention of his intent to take a
midnight stroll. I would have heartily discouraged him.”
Apparently satisfied, Colonel Davies withdrew. Earl was relieved that he didn’t harass
Mofford for more; he was a powerful ally and personal friend of Sid’s.
As if hearing his thoughts, Mofford turned to Earl and clapped him on the shoulder. He
peered keenly into his face with concern etched in the furrows around his eyes, and said,
“Earl, my boy, always remember that Sid was extremely proud of you, as proud as he would
be of a blood born son. Don’t worry if you never told him how you felt. He knew.”
He swallowed a sudden lump in his throat, remembering that like Zella, Mofford had an
uncanny sense for others’ weaknesses. He returned the iron handshake with, “Thank you,
Sir.”
He and Zella watched Mofford leave. Then she glanced at him with a question in her
eyes, and he managed a smile to say he was all right. Before heading into the conference
room, she said, “He’ll get me full party support. He’s going to work the opposition for me,
too.”
Earl nodded and started to follow, but Dirkan, standing at the doorway, stopped him
with a raised hand. “Sorry, Sanders. NSC only.” With a regretful smile, he swung the door
shut in Earl’s face. The clear glass walls turned a frosty opaque for privacy.
Muttering darkly about Dirkan’s desperate desire to be a self-important ass, Earl felt a
sudden unease at not being able to see Zella. After what happened to Sid, he didn’t want to
let her out of his sight. But he couldn’t stand there pressed against the glass like a kid
outside a toy store. Thinking she needed him to keep an eye on what happened on the
outside during the meeting, he went in search of Colonel Davies.
office and stifled a yawn that made his green eyes water. He stared blearily at stacks of
unread reports engulfing his computer and realized he hadn’t even made a dent in one pile.
Terrorists had bombed San Francisco’s TransAmerica Building and Manhattan’s
Holland Tunnel last month, killing hundreds. Since that day, Earl’s horror had deepened
into a very personal nightmare. He woke every morning to watch President Sid Mahoney,
his longtime boss and friend, spiral farther into delusion and despair.
He grabbed a beer out of the small refrigerator in the corner, then dug for the stash of
beef jerky in the bottom drawer of the desk. The thought of tomorrow, or was it today
already—made him wince. The strikes had affected Sid so acutely he seemed paralyzed,
clinging to flimsy diplomatic solutions over common sense.
But the worst was listening to him rant about an evil, far-reaching conspiracy.
According to Sid, the real enemy was not the Islamic terrorists who had attacked in two U.S.
cities. The real enemy had spies and agents everywhere. He didn’t even trust his core
group of advisors, the National Security Council, to be immune from some evil group he
privately called the Powers That Be. He insisted that he was given doctored intelligence
reports, exaggerated or downplayed threat assessments, and that key personnel had been
compromised into robots. And Earl worried that Sid was losing his mind.
Through the open door, he could hear quiet in the West Wing. The staff had gone home.
Debating how to structure Sid’s schedule to minimize stress and contact with hostile
members of Congress, he lifted a worn, signed baseball glove that weighed down the tallest
stack of documents. Lost in thought, he swiveled the chair and fired a tennis ball repeatedly
against the wall that separated his office suite from that of the vice president. Then he heard
a thud in response; she threw what sounded like a heeled shoe.
He smiled wryly and tossed the glove to his desk. Of course the vice president was still
here. Zella was also deeply worried about Sid. Her reaction was to work even harder, as if
that were possible. She had been Earl’s good friend since they were both in their early
twenties, when they were both peons working for Congressmen on the Hill.
Two decades later, she was a political powerhouse. She and Sid were a potent, effective
team. Yet even they had argued lately. Earl knew she fought privately for military action
against the terrorists and Gulf countries that allowed them to hide in their borders. Her
concern also voiced Earl’s biggest fear; that Sid’s feeble response invited more terrorism
and made the nation vulnerable to further attack.
He heard distant footfalls. Definitely the sound of running. In one move, he was out of
his chair and into the hallway.
A Secret Service agent came charging toward him, bellowing that the president was
shot. Almost three hours ago, Earl had taken Sid up to the residence for their ritual evening
scotch and cigar before Sid retired for the night. He shook his head in disbelief, saying, “He
was shot in his bed?”
“Sir, he took one of his late night walks. All I know is that he’s on his way to Walter Reed
Hospital.”
After a stunned pause, Earl said, “I’m on my way.”
“No Sir. You and the vice president are going underground.”
While he protested, more agents barged into the vice president’s office suite. Zella
emerged, looking dazed. Her blouse sleeves were rolled up around her elbows, her wavy
auburn hair loose and disheveled. Even barefoot, which was her preference, she was
inherently elegant and almost as tall as the men who surrounded her. An agent clutched her
shoes and suit jacket.
When she met Earl’s gaze, her sapphire eyes looked wide and spooked. And for a
moment, he felt torn between loyalties, not knowing whether to stay with her or go to Sid.
Then he realized Sid would only tell him to go back immediately to help Zella.
As he turned and allowed Secret Service to herd him toward the elevator that would take
them underground, he heard her ask, “How did the president get out of here? Who the hell
would just let him leave?”
An agent said, “Ma’am, it’s my understanding that he came down almost an hour ago.
The lead agent at the residence must’ve thought they had adequate protection for an off-the-
record movement. He went with the president.”
With a deepening frown, Zella darted Earl a look. Not only did Secret Service allow Sid to
go, but someone on the inside had also let the attackers know when and where he was
going.
Suddenly, the dark suits that he had come to associate with her safety seemed
menacing. He grabbed her shoes and jacket from an agent and waved Zella into the waiting
elevator. While she typed a quick code and allowed the iris scan needed to start the car, he
followed her in and blocked the others, saying lightly, “Thanks, we’ll be all right now.”
They dropped through sixty feet of steel reinforced concrete. He breathed out into the
silence, certain that Sid had gone to his favorite thinking spot. He pictured him walking
along the Reflecting Pools and enjoying the tranquil autumn night, having his usual heart to
heart with Lincoln, and then being gunned down. Suppressing a shudder, he glanced at
Zella. She was staring straight ahead.
Without moving her gaze, she said, “I need you to watch my back. It’s going to be total
chaos. People will be giving the military orders and executing intelligence directives. Help
me make sure nobody takes this opportunity to work a private agenda.”
He nodded and took a bracing breath, then noticed her golden hair clip riding on the
shoulder pad of her blouse, where she usually kept it when she was deep into work and
didn’t want to lose track of it. He reached over and unclipped it, handing it to her before he
set her shoes on the floor. She pulled her hair back in the clip and bent to wriggle her feet
into her shoes as the elevator opened to a long, brightly lit, white tile-lined hallway.
They crossed the hall to a thick steel door. A soldier standing guard saluted her, then
glanced at security cameras with a quick nod. The massive steel door glided open.
As Zella walked into the nerve center of the Situation Room’s underground compound,
the military personnel in fatigues snapped to attention. Earl glanced at wall-sized screens
with maps of the world that showed U.S. forces and the status of potential threats against
them. Wall screens also showed near real-time satellite feeds of barren desert landscapes,
stark mountains and bustling cities where everyone in sight wore traditional Muslim attire.
Banks of computers flashed classified dispatches. Behind desks staggered for privacy,
analysts pored over intelligence and spy satellite photographs. The ceilings were low, and
the air smelled faintly of disinfectant and mold.
This subterranean complex was staffed twenty-four hours, seven days a week with top
clearance military experts. Earl had dubbed it the Crisis Pit after the first time they came
down to run a drill. From here, a president could launch a nuclear strike or monitor an
invasion via satellite feeds. And as if anyone could forget America’s number one enemy, a
grainy picture of the terrorist’s leader Abdallah ibn Fatah hung pinned to every cubicle wall.
Fatah had claimed responsibility for the Holland Tunnel and TransAmerica bombings and
provided proof that his network was behind the attacks.
A full Colonel met them and saluted, then said, “Madam Vice President, Mr. Sanders, I’m
Colonel Davies, senior officer on this shift. The NSC members have been contacted, and
they will arrive shortly. This way, please.”
They followed him into the executive conference room, a soundproof, bulletproof glass
enclosure at one end of the complex’s main room. Earl hung Zella’s jacket on the back of
her usual chair to the right of Sid’s seat at the head of the long, rectangular conference
table. A soldier began passing copies of the latest intelligence and analyses to each empty
seat around the table to prepare for the NSC’s arrival.
To the Colonel, Zella said, “Where’s Fatah? Were there any unusual asset movements,
like aircraft deployment or border fortification that shows another country knew the
shooting was going to go down?”
“Ma’am, Fatah was last reported in Iran, but that intel is a few days old. As you well
know, it’s been a challenge keeping real-time information on his location. Preliminary
reports show no indication that another nation prepared for the attack on the president.”
Earl saw Zella’s shoulders relax just slightly. She said, “Good. Let’s talk threat
assessment until the NSC gets here.”
While she spoke with the Colonel, Earl stopped a soldier he recognized from the days
that they had spent underground in the aftermath of last month’s bombings. “Hey Franco,
we need a pair of the vice president’s reading glasses. And make sure her husband is flown
back immediately from wherever he is. We need to alert Congress about the shooting in
order of chain of command.” Then he averted his eyes, feeling like he betrayed Sid as he
said, “We also need to get hold of a Justice. We need to be prepared to swear her in if the
worst does happen.”
“Sir, he’s already on his way.” A large screen on the one solid wall of the glassed in
conference room distracted them both. Words scrolled in bright blue: DOCTOR
ELLISON…WALTER REED HOSPITAL
Colonel Davies hit a red button on a telephone. The doctor’s voice blared over built-in
speakers. “Evening, Madam Vice President. I’m Doctor Ellison, chief surgeon on duty. The
president’s cause of death was a gunshot wound. The first shot went through his neck at
the base of his throat. The second round entered the nasal cavity and exited through the
occipital lobe. That was the fatal wound. Be aware that the fourth digit on his left hand was
severed and removed from the scene.”
“He’s dead?” Zella’s voice sounded small and bewildered. “And they took his finger?”
“Yes Ma’am. We’ll send a scrambled fax with a detailed report as we complete each of
the six autopsies. We lost everyone on his detail except the driver and his partner, who were
both in the car.”
“Six autopsies,” she repeated softly.
She cleared her throat as Earl still tried to focus past two words linked in a staggering
combination: president and death.
Sid couldn’t be dead. Yet in the background, he could hear Davies confirming the
permanent transfer of power and arranging the mostly ritualistic swearing-in ceremony. Sid
was not coming back. Even Zella, a master at hiding emotions, looked downright ill.
He wiped his damp palms on his pants and stared down at the table and a plaque used
in video conferencing: President Sidney F. Mahoney. He bit the inside of his cheek until he
tasted blood. Twenty years he had spent at Sid’s side, a wild ride that led from a crowded,
dingy congressional office clear up to the White House. It was over. Sid was gone.
Then his gaze rested on Zella’s pale, taut face. She was only forty-four years old. This
would be a brutal transition for the first female President of the United States. And worse,
the country was still reeling from the recent terrorist attacks.
Locking away a tangled knot of anger and grief, he searched her blank gaze, saying
quietly, “As soon as the NSC gets here, we’ll film the swearing-in so we can air it when we’
re ready to go public with the news. For now, we’ll release a statement saying he was taken
to the hospital for undisclosed emergency care.”
“No. I’m not starting out with a lie. Tell them he went on an off-the-record movement and
that his detail was ambushed.”
He opened his mouth to protest, then stopped. “All right, it’s your call. We’ll hold a press
conference in the morning. You’ll give a statement and turn it over to the FBI and someone
good from Secret Service. How’s that sound?”
When she nodded dully, he gave her limp arm a quick, firm squeeze. She closed her
eyes. As she opened them again, she wore a mask of serene determination.
Flashing lights above the main door signaled a breach in lockdown mode. The door slid
open and the White House national security advisor entered. Zella murmured, “Good.
Dirkan’s here.”
Earl wished it were anyone else. Pierce Dirkan was in his late forties, tall, dark, and good-
looking, a recent widower who came from wealthy European nobility, and educated
alongside the global elite of financial dynasties and future kings. He spoke fluent Arabic and
had fantastic connections all over the Middle East. He had proved himself an enormous
asset to Sid’s administration and a genius at his job, but Earl couldn’t stand him. He didn’t
know why his dislike for Dirkan ran so deep any more than he could figure out why Sid and
Zella trusted the man so completely.
Visibly shaken, Dirkan hesitated in the conference room doorway, looking at
Zella.
In answer to his unspoken question, she said, “He’s gone.”
Dirkan sat heavily at the table. He bowed his head, and Earl heard several raspy breaths.
Then Dirkan lifted his head and met Earl’s gaze. “I am so sorry,” he said, “I know what Sid
meant to you.” His dark blue eyes looked bright with fury as he added, “Zella, I don’t know
how this happened. I don’t know if we missed intelligence that someone was planning this
assassination, but I will find out.”
With a crisp shake of her head, she yanked her jacket off the chair and put it on. “That
can wait. I need to know what’s going to happen next.”
The door opened for Admiral Johnson, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, a lean,
muscular man, made up of sharp angles and keen eyes. Earl knew he led survival retreats
for fun, teaching soldiers which bugs to eat and how to sleep naked in snow. He watched
the Admiral come inside warily, eyeing Zella as if he expected her to burst into tears or
implode. The Admiral was not going to be happy about having a woman in charge of his
military, but Earl also knew she wouldn’t particularly care.
Returning his habitual salute, she straightened her posture to greet the rest of the NSC
when they came inside the conference room. As she did, an innately commanding presence
fell around her like a cloak. Earl had seen powerful people treat her instinctively with respect
long before the White House. Still, he studied the NSC for warning signs or hints of
insubordination.
The Secretary of Defense stood next to the Admiral, clutching a rumpled suit coat,
looking numb and totally lost. Circles of sweat ringed the armpits of his shirt. Corning was a
brilliant, sweaty man whom Sid had appointed to streamline the Pentagon. Instead of
finding areas for improvement, Corning got sucked into their world of cryptic acronyms and
dazzling weapons programs.
Earl’s gaze rested briefly on the Director of Central Intelligence, a figurehead who
excelled at smiling for cameras. Sid nominated him in a compromise with the Deputy DCI,
who ran the show quite well but shunned the spotlight. The scrawny, owl-like Pfau didn’t
mumble five words per meeting. Now, Pfau squinted at Zella like he was trying to remember
who she was, and Earl made a mental note to get the Deputy DCI in to brief her as soon as
possible.
Last to arrive was Secretary of State Sappelle, appearing neat and composed, as if there
were nothing unusual about this nocturnal, subterranean gathering. Yet Earl knew he would
be seriously stressed. Sid had given him countless chances to diplomatically pressure Gulf
governments to arrest Fatah. He obviously hoped to have the same pull with Zella; he stood
strategically next to Dirkan, whom everyone knew she listened to and trusted.
Everyone stood in awkward silence, looking grimly at Zella. She said, “Well, gentlemen,
here we are. I’m sure each of you will do his best. Not just for me, but for our country and
Sid’s memory.”
A knock on the door interrupted the bobbing heads and sincere murmurs. Franco
poked his head in and said, “Madam Vice President, we have a justice ready to swear you
in. Sirs, your presence is required.”
Zella took the lead, and the NSC filed out after her. Earl trailed a few steps behind the
group as they passed through an unmarked door and down a narrow hallway painted
battleship gray.
Pushing through a heavy double door, he glanced at a sound stage containing a mock
Oval Office, complete with a replica of Sid’s desk and the photographs of his family. Behind
the desk, drawn curtains hid the fact that there were no windows. A professional television
camera on a tripod pointed toward the stage, and snaking wires led off to a manned editing
and video control room. In here, the president could broadcast live from the safety of the
Situation Room while citizens believed he or she was above ground just like the rest of
them.
A staffer walked toward Zella with a makeup kit and hair spray. Earl stopped her and
said, “Keep it minimal. I don’t want the vice president looking ready for some pageant.”
Keeping his gaze straight to avoid the desk’s pictures, he walked past the stage, nodding a
greeting to the soldier in charge.
He stood off to the side and watched Zella and the NSC file up on to the stage. A flurry of
controversy erupted over who should stand where, which she pointedly ignored, and Earl
was glad no one seemed to think he should join them on the stage.
Then he overheard a staffer ask quietly, “What about the first lady?”
“No,” someone else answered. “They sedated her after they gave her the news.”
With a guilty start, Earl realized he hadn’t even thought about Sid’s widow. She would
be a mess. They had been married for over forty years. He shifted his weight uncomfortably,
then focused on Zella. The cut of her suit pants made her seem even taller. Good. Her suit
jacket looked wrinkled. He debated sending for a change of clothes, then decided against it.
The scene shouldn’t be slick and clean.
The oath of office cue cards came up, and the camera’s red recording light blinked on. A
Justice held out a worn, leather Bible and said, “Please place your left hand on the Bible
and raise your right hand.”
Zella did as he asked, then said, “I, Zella Anne Brooks, do solemnly swear that I will
faithfully execute the Office of the President of the United States.” Earl leaned against the
wall with his arms folded, listening to Zella recite the rest of the oath in her strong speech
voice. He felt like he was watching the filming of a TV show, with cast members he knew all
too well. When she finished, a few of the staff huddled in the booth to assess the replay. He
didn’t have to see the recording. Experience told him it would be fine.
Seeing thumbs up from the control room, Zella turned stiffly and left the stage. Earl
noticed she avoided the desk and its pictures as he had. He brought up the rear of the
somber procession marching back to the main room.
As Zella and the NSC began filing into the adjacent conference room, a tall, elderly man
with a solid head of silver hair came inside through the Situation Room’s steel access door.
Earl halted when he recognized Andrew Mofford, White House legal counsel and Sid’s
good friend. Sid had given him a special pass that allowed him carte blanche in the
compound; the legendary attorney and Beltway power broker had enormous clout in their
party. He had also pressured unions and key special interests to their side, turning the
close election for them. Earl’s respect for Mofford was tinged with awe and gratitude, and
he knew Zella felt the same. She ducked back out of the conference room the moment she
spotted him.
Mofford’s steep forehead was lined with worry and grief. He nodded a gloomy greeting
to Earl, then gripped Zella’s shoulder and lifted his silvery eyebrows. “Zella, my dear. How
are you surviving?”
The rest of their conversation was lost to Earl; Mofford steered Zella into an empty
cubicle to talk in private. Earl pretended to sort papers while he watched this critical
encounter on the sly. Without Mofford’s backing, she would have a hard time
accomplishing anything with Congress. She would also have no chance in hell during next
year’s election. He watched her speak earnestly, holding Mofford’s penetrating gaze with a
deferential tilt to her auburn head. When they shook hands and came back, she threw Earl a
quick nod to tell him she had secured Mofford’s support.
Colonel Davies intercepted Mofford. “Sir, records show President Mahoney made one
private call last night. That was to you.”
In a quiet, deeply resonant voice, he said, “Yes, he called at around ten. We spoke in
general terms about the terrorism and election. I could tell he was distraught, but he did not
elaborate, beyond the obvious. It is unfortunate he made no mention of his intent to take a
midnight stroll. I would have heartily discouraged him.”
Apparently satisfied, Colonel Davies withdrew. Earl was relieved that he didn’t harass
Mofford for more; he was a powerful ally and personal friend of Sid’s.
As if hearing his thoughts, Mofford turned to Earl and clapped him on the shoulder. He
peered keenly into his face with concern etched in the furrows around his eyes, and said,
“Earl, my boy, always remember that Sid was extremely proud of you, as proud as he would
be of a blood born son. Don’t worry if you never told him how you felt. He knew.”
He swallowed a sudden lump in his throat, remembering that like Zella, Mofford had an
uncanny sense for others’ weaknesses. He returned the iron handshake with, “Thank you,
Sir.”
He and Zella watched Mofford leave. Then she glanced at him with a question in her
eyes, and he managed a smile to say he was all right. Before heading into the conference
room, she said, “He’ll get me full party support. He’s going to work the opposition for me,
too.”
Earl nodded and started to follow, but Dirkan, standing at the doorway, stopped him
with a raised hand. “Sorry, Sanders. NSC only.” With a regretful smile, he swung the door
shut in Earl’s face. The clear glass walls turned a frosty opaque for privacy.
Muttering darkly about Dirkan’s desperate desire to be a self-important ass, Earl felt a
sudden unease at not being able to see Zella. After what happened to Sid, he didn’t want to
let her out of his sight. But he couldn’t stand there pressed against the glass like a kid
outside a toy store. Thinking she needed him to keep an eye on what happened on the
outside during the meeting, he went in search of Colonel Davies.
| Chapter One ~ The Thief Of Sacred |
