Blood Vengeance

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Drake entered Conference Room 1B not knowing what to expect. The first thing he noticed was the heavy security; at least twenty Secret Service agents stood around the raised dais at the end of the room when only half-a-dozen normally surrounded the President. They wore black suits and blue ties, and bore little gold pins on their lapels. To a man, a white earpiece dangled from their lobes and disappeared under their collars. Even more stood about the room, automatic weapons in full view. Drake knew the Army was gathering outside — several of its highest ranking officers were already here.

The room itself bustled with agents from every division, many stood around in groups discussing the crisis. Drake just hoped they weren’t already deciding which poor bastard would take the fall for all this.

Several large TVs and monitors had been hastily erected above the stage, each one showing the face of an important-looking individual, depicted by their uniforms, medals and bearing.

Dahl pointed to the dais. “You know any of those men?”

“No more than you. Vice President Dolan in the flesh. Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Sanford, on telly. I bet those guys are the other Joint Chiefs. Not sure about the rest.”

Dahl nodded to a sandy-haired man to the far right. “I know him. Commandant of the Marine Corps, Tom Liddell. Good man.”

Drake glanced across the room and headed over to the water table. Several jugs were scattered about and he helped himself to a glass. As he drank, the Vice President rose and called for quiet. The casual unceremonious way in which he did it confirmed as much as anything the level of threat they were up against.

“My friends, I don’t have long here. The Secret Service are about to whisk me off.” He waited until every last murmur subsided. “They would rather I be long gone already. But I wanted to say — this will not stand. This is free American soil, my friends, and no one will dictate to us our way of life. This is free American soil, hard-fought for by every serviceman and woman every day of their lives. This is free American soil, and we will fight for it tooth and nail, blood and bone, until every last breath has been forced from our bodies. We will fight and we will never stop, for our way of life, for our dignity, our honor, and for our children.”

The Vice President nodded and turned away, quickly surrounded by the Secret Service. The room erupted into applause. Drake put down his glass to join in, and Dahl clapped loudly at his side. After a minute, another man spoke, the Deputy Secretary of Defense, William Massey.

Massey, on camera, held up a remote control and flicked it at his own screen. A blank TV at the front of the room glimmered into life. “This is what happened a few minutes ago.”

Drake watched as, unbelievably, Dmitry Kovalenko, seated beside President Coburn, calmly laid down a four-word challenge to every serviceman, cop or gung-ho citizen in the United States.

“Come and get me.”

Massey leaned into the camera, but another voice spoke up first. The voice of the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, John Sanford.

“It must never be said that the United States watched indolently when we were tested. We will not stand in disarray and watch a public execution. By God, we will accept that bastard’s challenge and go get our president.”

Now Massey held up a hand. “But first we need your input.” He acknowledged every man and woman in the room. “You were all brought here today — and yes, some are still en route — because of your past service to this country and the special skills you can bring to the table. This—” he clicked an unseen button. “Is the blueprint of the Hotel Dillion. It is overlaid with every known facelift and upgrade. Put your heads together, gentlemen. We’re going in to get President Coburn within the hour.”