The Ajax Protocol

CHAPTER 6

It was almost 8 o'clock on the evening of the next day. President James Rice sipped from a glass of water as he waited for his cue to go on stage. He was about to make an important speech on national television about the struggling economy.

Rice was worried about more than the economy. A potential crisis was shaping up in Russia and no one knew for sure what had happened over there. The signs weren't good. Recent relations between the White House and the Kremlin were slipping toward cold war status. Earlier, a cable had come from his ambassador in Moscow warning that the Federation suspected the US could be involved with what had happened in Siberia.

Rice didn't know what had happened in Siberia. He was afraid it would turn into one of those terrorist incidents that threatened America. If the public knew how many times the country had come within a hair's breadth of total destruction because of the insane acts of suicidal terrorists, Rice was sure they would run screaming through the streets. He wanted to be back in the White House, working on a way to defuse the building tensions. Instead, he was about to make a speech aimed at convincing the American public that everything was fine while the world economy tottered on the brink of collapse.

At moments like this, he would think about his family and how fragile the illusion of security and safety that surrounded them and every other American family really was. Sometimes it wasn't much fun playing the role of leader of the free world.

He felt unwell, a little feverish. He took another sip of water. It had an odd taste, but at least it was wet and cold.

The Secret Service agent standing next to him said, "There's your cue, Mister President."

"Thank you, Sam. Everyone in place?"

"Yes, sir."

Rice straightened his tie. It was his favorite necktie, given to him by his daughter. That had been years ago, but he still liked to wear it. For some reason it felt unusually tight.

"Showtime," he said.

He strode onto stage to the strains of Hail to the Chief, flashing his traditional wide smile and waving to the expectant crowd. He reached the podium and looked out at the teleprompter. Sudden pain ran down his left arm like a bolt of fire. Then it was as if a giant hand reached out and grabbed his chest and squeezed. He couldn't breathe.

Rice staggered, clutched at the podium and pitched forward onto the stage. Shouts came from the crowd. The Secret Service detail ran forward and surrounded him.

At home in Virginia, General Westlake watched the confusion and chaos on his television and smiled. The cameras cut away to the network studio. He poured himself another drink.

That's one problem solved. One to go.

He eyed the amber liquid in his glass and decided it was the last of the evening. Alcohol helped him think, but lately he'd caught himself drinking more than usual. He'd come too far to make a mistake at this stage of the game. The last pieces were being moved into place.

Westlake came from a strong military tradition. His grandfather had been wounded in France during World War I. His father had won the Distinguished Service Cross and a Silver Star in World War II. When Westlake graduated from West Point he'd been a naïve young man who believed his country was led by those who wanted to make the world a better place.

Instead, he'd watched America become a country run by people who thought profit and compromise was a successful national strategy. He'd watched the military hamstrung by incompetent leaders and misguided policies, even as superior technology and a giant budget turned it into the most fearsome fighting force the world had ever seen.

He'd risen almost to the top of the military pyramid, but high rank was political in nature. He'd been passed over for the Joint Chiefs and high command in the field. His outspoken and public views that mistakes had been made and changes were needed had earned him enemies in Congress.

Westlake was not alone in his views. He had the support of powerful men in Congress and at the Pentagon. Men who made a difference, who believed as he did in the nation's destiny. Patriots and realists like himself, ready to do something about it.

Four years ago, he'd gotten an invitation to a quiet meeting that had altered his life. That meeting had led to more meetings, with men who had a plan to take control of the government, men of influence and wealth. They wanted him to lead a new America, an America that would claim its place as the one supreme power in the world.

Still, he'd hesitated. Then his son had been killed in Afghanistan. It had been the final argument that convinced him to join them.

Westlake looked over at the picture he kept on his desk and felt the pull of grief that never seemed to leave him. The photo had been taken on the day his boy graduated from West Point. Alan Westlake was smiling, proud and tall in his gray uniform. He had died for no good reason in a badly managed war that was bleeding America dry.

When the transition was over and he was in control, there would be no more wars fought without the political will to win.

Westlake raised his drink to the picture of his son.