Executive Order

Nineteen

All four were in the Buick now, Reeder riding up front, Rogers behind the wheel, the other two in back. They were driving through Catoctin Mountain Park, not far from their destination in the Maryland woods, when Hardesy leaned forward like a kid wanting to know how many more miles and asked, “Sure we shouldn’t wait for dark?”

Reeder said, “That would give away what little advantage we have. They have the tactical night-vision gear, goggles, binoculars, rifle scopes, every toy we don’t have. We’d still have surprise, but we have that now.”

The vehicle continued threading through the thick poplar forest, sun cutting through to dapple the shade with gold until clouds rolled in to mute the effect. They encountered a few other drivers, tourists, families. Not many. Reeder pointed to a dirt road off to the right and Rogers veered in that direction, the way proving to be more a trampled path. The car bounced and lurched, jostling them but good, until finally Rogers found a place to park between a chestnut oak and a beech, the latter large enough to all but hide the vehicle behind.

All four wore hooded hunting attire, purchased at a Hanover, Maryland, Walmart, where Reeder had also bought various goodies, including one hundred rounds for the various nine mils the quartet was packing (the two AR-15s had come with plenty of .223 Remington ammo). They had stopped at a gas station to get into the camo gear, as well as the four Kevlar vests that Reeder, anticipating a need, had risked purchasing at a Navy Yard area army surplus store back when they were guests of DeMarcus.

As leaves and sticks crunched beneath their camo-colored boots, and trees rustled and birds sang and cawed, Hardesy procured the two AR-15s from the Buick’s trunk, kept one and handed the other off to Wade. Reeder had decided to use the rifles to protect the flanks, while he and Rogers came up the middle. Without sound-suppressed weapons, the first time any of them fired, the element of surprise would be over and the firefight would be on.

Before they started out, Reeder gathered them into a kind of commando huddle, and said, “The strategy here requires one part stealth and two parts luck.”

Everyone nodded at that.

Reeder went on: “Start by setting your phones to vibrate.”

Hardesy, a little edgy, said, “I think I could have figured that out.”

Reeder ignored that, saying, “Texting is the only secure communication system we have. A text can be used for specific intelligence, or just a few letters of gibberish... because the vibration itself means drop and freeze.”

They all had burner phones in hand now.

“After you’ve hit the dirt,” Reeder said, “check for shared intelligence, when you can do so safely. If it’s just a few scrambled letters meant to alert you to danger, wait it out, then go when you feel you can.”

Wade and Hardesy nodded.

Rogers held up her cell. “I’ve made a group. You should all have a text from me soon. I’m including Miggie, too.”

Reeder felt his phone vibrate, as around him the hum of other cells sang the same song.

He gave Rogers a nod of thanks. With no makeup, under that camo hood, she might have been an adolescent boy. Of course, that would be an adolescent boy with two nine millimeter automatics, one in her hip holster, the other in her right hand.

Like the pines around them, Wade towered over the little group. “How far out are we?” he asked.

Reeder pointed. “Maybe two clicks from the security boundary.”

Craning around, taking in the surroundings, Hardesy said, “Some scenery, huh? Breathtaking, really. You know, if I live through this, I could see taking a week out here with the family.”

Everybody managed a smile, and Rogers said, “Or if we’re caught, when you get out of the federal pen? You can bring your great-grandkids out here.”

“Oh, he won’t be out that soon,” Reeder said.

And now they laughed. Somewhere a bird joined in, somewhat tauntingly.

“All right,” Reeder said in a sigh. “Let’s get moving — stay quiet, and alert. Nothing riding on this except the line of succession and maybe a shooting war with Russia.”

AR-15 in his hands, Hardesy said, “No pressure.”

“Well, at least I left out the Armageddon part.”

Wade, the other guy with an AR-15, said, “Man, as pep talks go, that comes in way behind win-one-for-the-Gipper.”

That got a few chuckles, likely the last levity these four would enjoy for a while.

They moved out, all their attention on the mission. They started slowly, single file, till they got to their real starting position. The afternoon was cool, but the heavy camo clothing with the bulletproof vests was warm. Reeder wiped his brow with the back of a hand, knowing some of it was nerves.

The little group spread out at first, the better to know what they were dealing with. For half an hour or more they walked, every step deliberate and yet the leaves and twigs seemed to scream their approach. But not a phone vibrated, and nothing unexpected emerged.

Then they had closed ranks enough to see each other crouching in the underbrush, just outside what Reeder knew to be the security perimeter of Camp David. Shadows thrown by the canopy of trees on a cloudy day combined to give them some semblance of darkness.

Reeder went from face to face, his eyes saying, Point of no return. What he got back were expressions as blank as the one he so frequently showed the world.

Then he got out the presidential phone and texted: *In position*

He knew, better than anyone, that it would take time for President Harrison to deal with his end, which included an extra responsibility before making his way down the tunnel from Aspen Lodge to the command center. Settling in for the wait, staying alert, keeping calm, might be the hardest part.

Ten minutes dragged by. Twenty. Wade and Hardesy were getting restless, stretching, cracking their backs, their necks. They were FBI field agents, after all, not Navy SEALs.

He shot them a look: Patience.

Another ten minutes. Afternoon was easing into dusk. Everyone’s eyes would go to Reeder and Reeder would seem not to see them, then shake his head.

Finally Rogers crept over to him. “Something’s wrong.”

“We don’t know that,” Reeder said.

Wade, AR-15 in one hand, clambered over. Whispered, “Man’s had time enough.”

Hardesy came over, too, hugging his rifle. “Maybe we should abort. Maybe there’s another way.”

Reeder said calmly, “He couldn’t just get up and walk away. Bound to be in the middle of a meeting with everything going on.”

“Unless,” Rogers said, “the Alliance has already struck and we’re too late. We could be waiting for a dead man’s signal.”

She had just voiced his greatest fear.

Reeder got to his feet and said, “Or he may not be dead yet. Which means we better get our asses in there.”

Wade yanked him back down into the weeds. “Man, without the security down, that’s crazy!”

Hardesy got hold of Reeder’s other sleeve and said, “I signed on for the duration, Joe, but I don’t do kamikaze.”

“Then I go without you,” he said, and yanked himself away.

“Joe,” Rogers began. “We have to be smart about this...”

“You be smart,” he snapped. “The life of the President is on the line, and I’m going in. That’s what I was trained to do, and I’m not about to stop now. Screw the security system. If nothing else, it’ll get the place locked down, and I have to believe the majority of those on guard are not compromised.”

They all looked at him with wide eyes filled with alarm and maybe something else, maybe respect or admiration or some damn thing, but if they thought reasoning with him would work, they didn’t know him well at all, not even Patti, and then his phone vibrated.

The text message said: *GO*

Reeder said, “Harrison made it. Still want to bail?”

They all shook their heads, maybe a little ashamed.

He texted back: *OK*

Bitching was forgotten and everyone got ready to move out. Hardesy went right, Wade left, while he and Rogers drove straight ahead. Each of the flanks had rifles, he had two pistols, his SIG Sauer and an anonymous nine, while Rogers had her Glock and another nine from DeMarcus’s stock. And they had plenty of ammo, thanks to Walmart.

They moved as low and fast as the underbrush would allow, needing to cover almost a mile before they got to their first goal, the edge of the golf course. Between here and there was thick brushwood, dense forest, and roving armed patrols. They were maybe halfway there when Reeder sensed movement to his right: Hardesy dropping to the ground, swallowed in the greenery.

Reeder reached over for Rogers and tugged her sleeve and they both fell into leafy cover as well. A two-man patrol was headed their way, uniformed Marines. Wanting to warn Wade, he dug carefully for his phone when it vibrated. A half-second later, Wade disappeared from view. Without checking, Reeder knew the text alert had come from Hardesy.

They watched silently through riffling leaves as the two-man patrol crossed their paths barely ten yards away. No dogs, at least, Reeder thought.

Armed with AR-15s of their own, the Marines moved on, oblivious to Reeder and the others at their feet. He gave them a full minute before he poked his head up.

“Gone,” he whispered.

They rose slowly, cautiously, like strange plants growing in this piney jungle, then moved on, slower now, fanning out again. Before long they were at the edge of the tree line.

Ahead was the second fairway.

Sixty yards of well-tended open ground yawned before them, beyond which were more sheltering trees. It was as if in the midst of a primordial world a country club had dropped from the sky. If they cut at a diagonal, to make up time and get to Aspen Lodge quicker, they’d have even farther to go out in the open.

The course appeared deserted on this cloudy late afternoon, but the foot patrols could be anywhere. Reeder and Rogers were between Wade (twenty yards from the tee) and Hardesy (twenty yards closer to the hole). In the planning stages, they’d decided that going one at a time across the fairway would be safer, even if moving all at once might be faster.

Reeder signaled Wade with a wave.

Looking like a guerilla in his camos, the former ball player, long legs pumping, crossed the rough on this side, then the fairway, and finally the rough opposite before disappearing into the trees.

They waited.

No sign that anyone had seen Wade.

Hardesy went next, angling slightly up the fairway before disappearing into the woods as well, heading toward his next position.

Looking back toward the tee, Reeder could just barely make out Wade moving through the trees.

“We should go together,” Rogers told him, looking so very young.

“Riskier.”

“Faster,” she said. “Clock’s running.”

He was about to agree when she jerked him down by his sleeve into the undergrowth again as another two-person Marine patrol, male and female this time, strolled right down the middle of the fairway toward the tee box.

He hadn’t seen them coming, and the way they sauntered right past where he and Rogers were belly down, the pair hadn’t seen either of them either.

As soon as the patrol was out of sight, Reeder and Rogers sprinted across the fairway and into the trees.

Wade was right there.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “Where the hell did those two come from?”

Rogers said, “No idea — they weren’t there, then they were. What, were they wearing slippers?”

Reeder said, “Did they see us?”

Wade said, “If they had, we probably wouldn’t be talkin’ about it right now.”

Within five minutes, Reeder, Rogers, and Wade were standing at the edge of the woods with Aspen Lodge perched atop a hill before them, an impressive yet unpretentious structure of three rambling green-clapboard wings with low-riding flagstone walls, an expansive yard between the intruders and the rear of the place.

Two guards patrolled the patio known as the upper and lower terraces, one on each level; two or more guards would be out front. Hardesy, having peeled off back at the golf course, was at the edge of the next sector, ready to provide the diversion they would need to cross the vastness of that backyard.

Reeder’s burner vibrated, stopped, vibrated, stopped. A glance at Rogers told him hers had done the same — Hardesy’s signal. Seconds later, he heard three quick shots from an AR-15. Both guards’ heads snapped in that direction.

“What the hell?” the lower-terrace guard said, his voice just barely carrying.

“Check it out!” the other one called, easier to hear, and both men moved around toward the front.

As soon as the guards skirted the corner, the three invaders sprinted across the sloping yard, staying low, then pressed themselves against the stone wall of the lower terrace. Carefully, a nine mil leading the way, Reeder climbed the few steps to the lower terrace. The patio with its furniture was unpopulated, and he kept going; the only entrance to the lodge on this side was back here on the upper terrace. Behind him came Wade with his AR-15 and Rogers with her Glock.

Six stairs from the lower to the upper terrace were navigated easily by Reeder, fanning his pistol to the left into a small garden, also unpopulated. He kept moving, past the windows of the sunroom, also empty (a nice break), as he made his way to a door he hoped would be unlocked — with those two guards stationed out here, that seemed possible. If not, Rogers had her lock picks, and she was damn good with them.

Their heads all swiveled toward the northeast when they heard more shots. Hardesy was definitely on the move, and they didn’t have a second to waste. The camp would be shutting down and locking up any moment now, if it hadn’t already.

Reeder tried the door, found it unlocked (another small break), then all three were inside, Wade closing them in. The cedar sunroom and the casual, open-beamed living room beyond were empty. Surely a silent alarm had to be going off right now. The alarm, Reeder knew, sounded in the command center and orders went out from there.

They checked the main floor and, surprisingly, found Aspen Lodge entirely deserted.

Wade asked, “Where the hell is everybody?”

Reeder said, “Likely a conference room in one of the other lodges. Digging in on the Azbekistani situation. That’s why they’re here.”

The sunroom door banged open and all three of them spun, weapons up.

Hardesy tramped in. “Christ, tumbleweed’s blowing through this place. What’s going on?”

They all lowered their weapons and Reeder asked, “I hope you aren’t leading a battalion of Marines our way.”

Hardesy shook his head. “I lost their asses in the woods. These young pups can’t compete with an old joe like me. Where the hell is everybody?”

Reeder said, “There’s a dozen or more buildings between here and Laurel Lodge to the north. The cabinet members, the President and VP could be in any of them. There’s conference rooms all over, as well as more informal areas where they can sit around working.”

“You ask me,” Hardesy said, “we got in way too easy.”

“Bullshit,” Wade said, jerking a thumb at Reeder. “We just got ourselves a tour guide who knows his way around.”

But Reeder said, “I don’t know whether we had crazy luck or somebody’s opening doors for us. Either way, we have a job — protecting the President and his cabinet. And that won’t be easy.”

“So we move to the next stage of the plan,” Rogers said, “and head down the tunnel to the command center, secure it and make sure the President is unharmed.”

“You and I will do that,” Reeder said to her. “Lucas and Reggie will stay here and make sure we’re not caught in a pincer movement.”

Hardesy was frowning. “You really think we should be splitting up? With the grounds and buildings crawling with Secret Service and Marines?”

“You’re the one that said this was too easy — if you’re right, Patti and I’ll need cover on this end. Lucas, watch the door we came in. Reg, take a position with an angle on the living room.”

Hardesy and Wade did that, then Reeder led Rogers back to the President’s bedroom. Larger than the otherwise similar cedar-walled guest quarters, the unpretentious space had a king bed with a folksy quilt, several comfy chairs, and a big flat-screen over a fieldstone fireplace. Next to a wooden-sliding-doors closet was the sleek non sequitur of a metal door.

Rogers asked, “Gun closet?”

Reeder shook his head. “Private elevator to the command-center tunnel.”

He flipped back the notched wooden cover of a round red button, which his right forefinger was poised to push, when her hand caught his wrist.

His eyes met hers as she said, “If you’re right about that pincer movement, the other half could be waiting in there. Or at least a gunman or two of it.”

They both had weapons in hand and were angled at either side of the metal door when he pressed the button. The door whispered open onto an empty elevator.

“Lucas said it,” she sighed. “Too easy.”

He said nothing.

“So we ride down,” she said, “and the door opens and a welcome committee is waiting with a who-knows-how-many-gun salute. Suggestions?”

“We take the ride,” he said, leaning in and pointing to the panel in the roof, “but from the observation deck.”

Her eyes opened momentarily wide. “Who doesn’t like to travel first class.”

They didn’t bother disabling the security camera — if they were expected, there was no point... not unless their action was caught on a monitor in time for any hosts below to be alerted.

The two-hundred-foot descent happened fast and it was all Reeder could do to haul Rogers up through the escape hatch and get it back in place before their descent slowed, then stopped.

The doors slid open, and bullets sprayed the car.

When the metallic hailstorm stopped, Reeder gazed down through the gridwork of the hatch where two men leaned in, one with a linebacker build, the other wiry, both with short dark hair, immaculate business suits, and AR-15s. Feds, probably Secret Service.

The wiry one said, “Where the hell...?”

When the linebacker stepped inside the car, Reeder kicked down on the hatch, swinging it to catch the man in the forehead and stagger him. Rogers dropped through the hatch, landing in a combat crouch. The wiry one was squeezing in, that AR-15 ready to spit, so she boot-heeled him in the face, knocking him back out and onto the concrete floor of the tunnel, spitting bloody teeth, not bullets. Reeder swung down right behind her, holding onto the edge of the roof, and kicking his already staggered opponent in the face as well, with the flats of both boots. The linebacker went backward and landed hard enough to knock himself cold, if he hadn’t already been.

Reeder and Rogers emerged from the elevator, nostrils twitching with cordite, ears ringing from all those rounds expended in the enclosed space. But footsteps in the tunnel were pounding their way, and that they could hear just fine.

They tucked back in the elevator as four more agents — summoned by the barrage of gunfire — rushed toward them, two with automatics, two with tactical machine pistols. Reeder and Rogers had their backs to either side of the inner doors. Nine mils in hand, angled up, they made eye contact.

Reeder lifted his head.

Rogers nodded.

He went high and she went low as they swung their guns through the open door, each picking the nearer machine-pistol agent, aiming center mass. The simultaneous squeezing of triggers doubled the thunder of the nine mils and both feds took a center hit and seemed to bow in thanks before going down in awkward sprawls, their weapons spinning and sliding out of reach.

The other two, faced with a lack of cover, retreated down the tunnel. Reeder and Rogers holstered their nine millimeters and acquired the AR-15s of the first two fallen agents and ammo as well. Moving quickly, they used zip ties to bind the hands behind the backs of all four agents.

They stood for a moment appraising their situation. The tunnel was an oversized hallway cutting through rough rock with a concrete floor and sporadic overhead lighting.

“They know we’re here now,” she said.

“You think?”

“You figure they’ll rush us?”

“Why bother? They know we’ll go to them, unless we want to take the elevator back up and devise a new plan that doesn’t include getting us killed. Of course, they can send more guns down that elevator and outflank us.”

She turned an eye toward the elevator. “You really think that elevator will still work after all those fireworks?”

“Why not? They shot the shit out of the car itself, but wouldn’t have hit the motor or any of the cables. Why, you want to go back up?”

“... No.”

They stayed close to the rugged rock walls, one on either side, as they moved down the tunnel, lugging the AR-15s, their footsteps, despite their care, echoing. Both knew that somewhere up ahead, guns waited. A lot of them. But short of sitting down in the tunnel, leaning back against the rock walls, and waiting for death to find them, they had no other real option.

A hissing turned Rogers around, staring at the way they came. “What was that?”

“Elevator doors closing. Thing must be functional. I’d say company’s coming.”

“Great.”

Reeder figured they were about halfway to the command center when a sound from way, way behind them might have been the elevator doors opening. He picked up the pace and Rogers did, too.

Finally they reached the entrance to the command center, an off-white wall blocking the way, decorated with the presidential seal and another seal labeled JOINT STAFF SUPPORT CENTER, RAVEN ROCK MOUNTAIN COMPLEX, surrounding a raven perched on a cliff at night. In addition a bold sign said WARNING, RESTRICTED AREA. A pair of central metal doors had a guard booth next to it.

Empty.

“Another welcoming committee,” he said, “on the other side, you think?”

Rogers grunted a laugh. “Maybe we’re the millionth visitor, and they have something special for us.”

“Maybe those doors are locked and this is a dead end.”

“Don’t sound so hopeful,” she said.

He tried a door.

Unlocked.

And when they entered into a good-size alcove facing a glass wall with metal-and-glass twin doors, they found no one waiting. Only an eerie silence greeted them.

Pistol noses up, they edged into the brightly lit room, computer terminals and monitor screens lining the walls; off to the left, a massive screen with an overhead map of Camp David, lighted here and there in red, dominated a circular command area. As impressive as all this was, the tableau before them was even more.

Nine men in black suits stood facing them in a row that was just faintly semicircular. Each had a handgun aimed at their just-arrived guests — well, eight did. The center man had his handgun in the neck of President Harrison, who was on his knees, his face bloodied, his tailored charcoal suit rumpled.

“Guess I chose the wrong man to trust, Joe,” Harrison said with a weak, puffy smile. “Head of the detail — who’d have thought it?”

That earned the President a whack along the side of the head by his captor. Reeder fought back the anger and disgust at the sight, the very thought, of those privileged to protect the President betraying their oath.

The current head of the presidential detail was not anyone Reeder recognized from Secret Service days, no — too young, too new, for that. But he did recognize the man, having gone tooth and nail with the son of a bitch in an alley near the townhouse, the night this excuse for a man had dropped his flag-lapel camera. Now Reeder got a better look — short-clipped brown hair, relaxed, emotionless face... just another anonymous Secret Service agent...

... in the sway of the Alliance.

“Welcome,” the presidential detail head said through a slash of smile. “We’ve been waiting for you. Can’t have a political assassination until the assassins get here.”