“Good point,” the Keep said. “You work for Ms. Jones, and I hate to be rude, but she works for Hannah. As do I.”
Nada wins again, Moms thought. “And what does the Keep do?”
The Keep rolled her fingers on the book she held so tight. “This book. I know you have to keep containment here and I don’t want to be an inconvenience, but above all, we must protect this book. It’s more important than the president.”
Chapter 12
The Secret Service that had been on duty was holding a perimeter, keeping the main building secure. Inside of them, a cordon of security in hazmat suits was at every possible exit: doors, windows, underground tunnels. As Cherry Tree blossomed inside, the uniformed senior officer outside, confused but resolute, kept the line. He’d called in everyone on the roster and also had the members of the Tactical Response Team doing an exercise around the House for the sake of the media that had gathered outside.
It was a ruse that would only last so long, but now that information was starting to clarify on Cherry Tree, it was a ruse that only needed to last so long.
Then, as always, things got worse.
General Riggs’s convoy pulled up to the rear of the White House. His armored limo rode heavy, followed by five black Chevy SUVs with tinted windows. Riggs’s staff piled out and the general bulled his way forward, halting just short of the senior Secret Service agent.
“Sir, we’re conducting a security training exercise and—”
“Bullshit,” Riggs said. “What’s really going on?”
“Sir, we’re conducting a security training exercise—”
“I’m the vice chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff,” Riggs said. “The chairman is in Scotland. That makes me the ranking military officer in the country. I have the highest security clearance in the country. What is going on?”
The senior agent did his best. “Sir, it’s a confusing situation, but the White House is in lockdown because some sort of pathogen is loose. We don’t believe it’s fatal or even physically harmful, but information is still coming in on it.”
“We’ve been attacked.” Riggs said it with absolute certainty. “The White House has been attacked and we’ve been decapitated by a biological attack.”
The Secret Service agent shook his head. “No, sir. I don’t think so, sir.”
“You’re not paid to think,” Riggs said. “You’re not paid to command. I am.”
A reporter who had been lurking outside the barriers shoved against a couple of agents and shouted, “General! What’s going on? Who’s running the government? If this is an exercise, where is the president?”
Riggs paused dramatically, feeling his destiny welling up in his chest, and turned to face the reporter. “There’s no need for alarm. As for now, I’m in control now and will be until we can”—he held up a meaty fist with the rolled-up copy of the Constitution in it—“make sure things are running smoothly again. That is”—he said—“pending the return of the White House…” But fuck that, it wasn’t true. “Gentlemen,” he said to no one in particular, but everyone within earshot, “I am in charge.”
He turned and strode toward the East Wing, his staff crowded around him. The head of the Secret Service watched them walk away, then turned to the reporter.
“It’s all part of the exercise,” he assured the confused man. Then he returned his attention to his priority: the building containing the president.
Riggs burst into the Visitors Foyer, noted the blocked doors to his right and the Secret Service guards, and turned left, down the East Colonnade. He went past the Family Theater (and they gave the military shit about waste?) toward the East Wing of the White House, the lesser known of the two flanks. It contained the First Lady’s offices, like anyone gives a rat’s ass about that bitch, Riggs thought as he waddled into the main corridor. It also had the calligraphy office, because that was the way they ran shit over here with their sense of priorities.
A military guard stood at the entrance to the elevator that led to the PEOC: the Presidential Emergency Operations Center. Most people knew about the Situation Room under the West Wing where the Oval Office was, but the PEOC was the real deal. Where the commander in chief would go when the shit hit the fan. Where the armed forces of the United States could be commanded and controlled.
Except the shit had hit the fan and as far as Riggs could tell, the president was cowering over in the Residence.
The marine on duty at the elevator popped to attention and snapped a salute. Riggs acknowledged him by tipping the Constitution to the brim of his cap. As many of his staff as possible (not many, given his girth) crowded in with him; the rest would have to wait for the next ride.
The PEOC had been built during World War II for President Roosevelt. During the Cold War it had been boasted that the center could survive a direct ICBM hit. As Riggs descended in the elevator through earth and the steel-reinforced concrete that covered the bunker, he knew technology had outstripped the outmoded facility. A modern targeted nuke would bust this bunker wide open.
He didn’t plan to allow the Russkies and the Chinese the opportunity to do that.
Riggs giggled at the thought. Those pinched in around him tried not to eye him, staring up at the ceiling or at the walls. The elevator rumbled to a halt and the doors slid open. The duty staff, a half dozen officers, and NCOs who manned the PEOC hopped to attention as Riggs entered.
“At ease, gentlemen, at ease.”
Riggs went to the head of the conference table, which took up most of the room. It was where Bush had eventually arrived on 9/11. Of course, Riggs knew the real deal, because he’d met the officer who’d had the duty that day, when America was attacked. Bush had been reading aloud to a group of second graders, continuing even after being told one, then two planes had hit the World Trade Center.
Then they’d finally managed to get to Air Force One, took off, and had no clue where to go since there was concern Washington, DC, was under attack. They eventually landed at Barksdale Air Force Base and then flew on to Offutt where the president was secreted in the Strategic Command Underground Command Center. There he communicated back to the VP in this very room until it was deemed safe for the president to return to Washington.
In essence, Riggs’s destiny was to make sure scared-shitless politicians didn’t screw things up again. Once more the White House was in chaos, but this time Riggs was going to pick up the slack.
He placed the items he’d brought with him on the table. First the copy of the Constitution, which he rolled out flat. Then he weighed the top end down with the Bible. When he drew his pistol and placed it on the closest end, silence descended in the room.
The elevator opened and the rest of his staff entered.
Riggs looked at the twenty-some-odd military men gathered around the conference table in the PEOC. He raised his hands. “Gentlemen. The country is being attacked. We, in this room, are the last line of defense. The president and the White House are under attack by biological agents. The vice president and the chairman are out of the country and we must assume, compromised. I am in charge.”
“Technically, sir,” one of the officers who’d been on duty and was not part of his staff protested, “the line of succession is—” He paused as Riggs lifted the gun off the bottom of the Constitution and pulled the slide back, chambering a round.