Brute Force

Chapter 67

Consistent with protocols after a security breach, the Secret Service should have whisked Hartman Drake away from the concert hall as soon as they realized the Vice President had been assassinated. The lead agent for his detail informed him of the death, as agents formed a protective barrier around him. Instead of ushering him straight out to the Beast, they took him into the back offices that had been designated by Advance as a safe room in the event of a shelter-in-place emergency.

His back to the wall and surrounded by machine-gun-wielding agents, Drake began to sweat profusely. He suddenly found it impossible to breathe and all but tore the bow tie from around his neck.

“What’s going on?” he demanded of the young agent standing inside the door. “It’s been over an hour. Why aren’t we moving?”

“I’m not sure, Mr. President,” the agent said, eyes focused on the door.

“Is the Vice President really dead?” Drake shuddered at the thought. No matter how much he despised the man, going forward without him seemed impossible.

“I’m not sure, Mr. President,” the agent said, as if it was the only phrase he knew. Then he put a hand to his ear, nodding at some radio traffic. He looked at Drake. “Please stand by to move, Mr. President. They’re bringing up your limo now.”

The short move from Seattle Center to Boeing Field and Air Force One should have taken ten minutes, especially with a Seattle Police escort. For some reason, the Secret Service seemed to be taking their own sweet time. Alone in the backseat of his limo, Drake pounded on the partition.

“Why are we taking so long?” he asked as the tinted glass screen lowered with an electronic whir. A different agent turned to look back at him from the front passenger seat. It was Jack Blackmore, the Special Agent in Charge of President Chris Clark’s protective detail. “What’s happened? Where is my detail?”

Blackmore smiled, the crow’s feet around his dark eyes adding to the rugged, outdoorsy look Drake had always found off-putting. “We believe your detail was compromised, Mr. President. Not to worry though. We’re almost there. You’ll be wheels up in five minutes.”

“Thank you,” Drake said. Things were happening much too fast for him to make sense of them. He relaxed a notch when they turned through the secure gate at Boeing Field and pulled up alongside Air Force One.

Drake very nearly threw up when he stepped on board. He would have fled the plane had not the steward shut the boarding door behind him.

Waiting in the executive seating area just inside the door sat Winfield Palmer, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Admiral Ricks, Secretary of Defense Andrew Filson, former Secretary of State Melissa Ryan, and Virginia Ross, former director of the CIA.

“Admiral,” Drake coughed, trying to still the spinning in his head. “These people are fugitives… Secretary Filson, I’m appointing you acting Attorney General and ordering you to place them under arrest…” His gaze shot around the plane, falling on the form of another man seated three seats back with his head down. Drake’s legs buckled when he realized it was Jericho Quinn — bruised and bandaged but very much alive. The reality of his situation came crashing down around him with a suddenness that made it hard to breathe, let alone keep his feet.

“Have a seat, Hartman,” Win Palmer said.

“I am the President—”

Palmer shook his head. “We’re way beyond that,” he whispered.

Drake’s eyes locked on Quinn, who had not moved from his seat. “Keep him away from me…” He turned to the admiral. “What is this? A coup?”

“Think of it more as career advice,” Andrew Filson said. “Something for you to think about when your acting term is expired.”

“Even in the capacity as acting President,” Melissa Ryan said, “you can still nominate an acting Vice President. The senate would have to approve, but under present circumstances I believe they’ll be glad if anyone wants the job.”

“Who?” Drake glared at Palmer. “Am I supposed to nominate you?”

Palmer shook his head. “No,” he said. “I prefer to work outside the bounds of that office. I’d say we kill you now, but neither the Speaker of the House nor Senate President Pro Tem want the gig — and Lord knows we don’t want your Secretary of State filling your shoes. Admiral Ricks, on the other hand, would make a fine choice. He will take over as acting president upon your resignation and withdrawal from public life, calling for a special election so the people will actually have a chance to vote for the leader of the free world. You had a good run, Drake. Got a little booty in the Oval Office and got to play big man for a few months while your VP tried to get us into a war. But it’s over. It’s really your call how you go out. And, I have to say, at this point, your choices are limited.”