Dead Heat

  The FBI said his mother and four younger brothers were nowhere to be found. They

  had very likely been vaporized in the attack on New York.

  He hadn't seen his father—a violent, raging alcoholic—in more than a decade. The last

  he'd heard, the man worked nights fixing subway tracks under the streets of Manhattan. In all likelihood, James Robert Caulfield was dead too. Perhaps that was for the better, but it meant James Robert "Bobby" Caulfield Jr. was all alone in the world.

  He looked around the room. No one looked directly back at him. Even here, he was

  alone, he told himself. He saw fear in the eyes of the men watching him from the

  videoconference screens. But he also saw a bloodlust for revenge—against him, against

  Pyongyang, against the Chinese, and against the unseen enemies lurking in the shadows,

  enemies that had just obliterated four American cities.

  He didn't see sympathy. He didn't see compassion. He knew any one of the agents

  outside this room would kill him in a heartbeat if he showed a moment's weakness. Only in 16

  the eyes of Judge Summers did he see what appeared to be a flicker of recognition that there might be a shred of decency somewhere deep inside Bobby Caulfield.

  Suddenly his attention turned to the flat-screen monitors and the minicameras built

  into them. It now dawned on him that everything he was doing was being seen and

  heard in the ops centers at Mount Weather, Site R, CINCPAC headquarters, Kadena Air

  Base in Okinawa, and the joint command war room a couple of stories underneath Seoul,

  The thought of his every action being watched by people he couldn't control repulsed

  him. He raised his weapon and fired four shots. Each of the four plasma TVs on the far

  wall exploded, startling everyone and cutting off the live feeds. He was alone again with hostages he could see, hear, and kill.

  * * *

  Jack McKittrick huddled with his men.

  He'd been commander of a Secret Service Counter Assault Team for less than

  eighteen months, but he'd been on the president's protective detail for the previous three years. His older brother, Charlie, had been blinded in the line of duty six years earlier protecting President MacPherson in Denver. Now someone had finished the job.

  MacPherson was dead. His family was dead. Most of the members of his political party and administration were dead. And McKittrick wasn't having any more of it. It was time to

  make someone pay, and Bobby Caulfield had just volunteered.

  "We don't have much time, gentlemen," he began, tucked away in an office down the hall from the conference room so they could talk and plan in privacy. "Caulfield's already killed Agent Coelho and General Briggs. Does anyone have any doubt he'd be willing to

  kill the president?"

  McKittrick, twenty-eight, looked into the eyes of all the men on his team. Only one

  glanced away. "Agent Thompson?"

  "I'm not saying it isn't possible, sir," replied Doug Thompson, the youngest man on the team at the tender age of twenty-five.

  "But?"

  "But he's worked for the president—well, really for Oaks as vice president—for more than a year. He's got a stellar reputation, a spotless record—"

  McKittrick cut him off. "Doug, you really want to tell Agent Coelho's widow and his three fatherless children that the man who killed him has a stellar reputation?"

  "I'm just saying I don't think he'd kill the president," Thompson said defensively.

  "Anyone else agree with that assessment?" McKittrick asked. No one did.

  "I didn't think so."

  They quickly reviewed a floor plan of the conference room, the schematics of the

  electrical work and the HVAC ducts, and improvised their plan in less than five minutes.

  "Let's just hope this works, gentlemen," McKittrick said, almost to himself, as he adjourned their meeting. "The last thing this country needs is another dead president."

  * * *

  "Mr. Vice President, I think we should move you."

  Lee James stopped pacing the floor of the Mount Weather ops center and turned to

  17

  Agent Bob Santini, head of his protective detail. "Where?" he asked.

  "Off the floor," Santini said quietly.

  "But to where?" James pressed.

  "Sir, given the situation at Crystal Palace, I'd just feel safer if we had you in a more protected environment. I'm thinking of General Stephens's office upstairs."

  "Agent Santini, we're in one of the most secure facilities on the planet."

  "So is the president," the agent replied. "Please, sir. Until we figure out exactly what's going on."

  James looked around him at the hubbub of activity. Two military aides nearby

  feverishly worked the phones, trying to track down the whereabouts of Jon Bennett.

  Some were developing contingency plans for China, others for North Korea, and, of course, new information was constantly pouring in from field teams assessing the damage in New

  York, D.C., Seattle, and L.A.

  "Fine, but I'm not happy about this, Agent," James said, then turned around to find Ginny Harris, his press secretary, standing there with two cell phones in her hands.

  "Sir, do you have a moment?" she asked.

  "I really don't, Ginny," he said as Santini and the rest of the detail began moving him toward the stairs.

  "Sir," Harris continued, "I really think you need to—"

  "Not right now, Ginny," James said, cutting her off. "Call me in ten minutes."

  He began heading to the second floor but Harris wouldn't take no for an answer.

  "Mr. Vice President, with all due respect, CNN has the story." James stopped in his tracks and turned back. "What?"

  "Someone's got a source inside NORAD. They know what's happening."

  James looked at the cell phones.

  "They're on mute, sir," Harris said, seeing his concern.

  "They'd better be."

  "They are," she assured him.

  "Mr. Vice President," Agent Santini said, looking anxious. "Please, sir. We need to keep moving."

  "Fine. Walk with me," James told Harris and they picked up the pace. "What does CNN

  have?"

  "They know there's a gunman," Harris said. "They know two people are dead. There are rumors the president has been shot and wounded."

  James was stunned. "Is that true?" he asked, turning a corner and stepping inside General Mike Stephens's office with Agent Santini and six other agents at his side.

  "I don't know, sir," Harris conceded.

  The vice president turned to Santini. "Is that true—has the president been hit?"

  "No, sir," Santini said. "I haven't heard anything like that."

  "Check it out," James ordered. "And tell the guys at NORAD to get me that video feed again. I want to know exactly what's happening in that room."

  "Yes, sir," Santini said. "I'm on it."

  Suddenly a military aide rushed to the door, before being stopped by agents. "The

  president's still alive, sir."

  "You're sure?" James asked.

  "Absolutely, sir. I've got the head of the Marine security division on the line."

  18

  "What's the status inside that room?"

  "Caulfield still has the president. But a Counter Assault Team is preparing to move in."

  James felt his whole body tense. He'd known Caulfield practically from the day the

  boy had started working for Oaks. He'd liked him. He'd seen a bright future for him. How was this possible?

  "Do they have a clear shot?" he asked, not entirely sure what he wanted the answer to be. There had to be a way out of this, he told himself. There had to be.

  "Not yet, sir," the aide said. "But they expect to have one in the next few moments."

  "And then?" he asked, reluctantly. br />
  "They're authorized to use any force necessary, sir."

  And James had no doubt they would use it, and soon.

  19

  5:57 A.M. MST-NORAD OPERATIONS CENTER

  Agent McKittrick carefully moved his men into position.

  One set up a small video camera in the hallway, without Caulfield noticing, giving

  them—and the vice president—a live feed. Another of his agents was now working his

  way through the heating and air- conditioning ducts. When McKittrick gave the word,

  he'd release semi- toxic gas that would knock out everyone in the conference room in a

  matter of seconds.

  * * *

  "Does anybody have an idea why Bobby's doing this?"

  "Nothing certain, sir," the vice president's senior military aide replied. "But Agent McKittrick is concerned he could be a sleeper agent."

  "Bobby Caulfield?" James asked. "That's not possible."

  "Maybe yes, maybe no," the aide said. "But it would certainly explain why he's moving now, just as the president is considering war plans against Pyongyang."

  "No," the vice president said. "I don't buy it. There's something else going on here."

  "I'm only telling you what they're telling me, sir."

  "Thanks, that'll be enough for now." The vice president suddenly felt overwhelmed with a sense of sadness and exhaustion. "Call with updates as you get them."

  "Yes, sir. I will, sir."

  The aide returned to the ops center floor. James sat down in the general's leather swivel chair behind a large oak desk and ordered the agents to shut the door. Santini stayed at his side. Another agent stayed in the room, a few steps from Harris, who took a seat in a chair beside the desk. No longer would he be left alone, even with a longtime trusted aide. The rest of the agents took up positions in the hallway.

  "No comment," James said at last.

  "Pardon me, sir?" Harris asked.

  "Tell CNN no comment."

  "You sure, sir?" Harris asked. "We could call it an exercise of some sort."

  "Are you kidding, Ginny?" James asked, shaking his head. "The last thing we're going to do is lie to the American people. Especially right now. But we don't need to give them the full truth. Not yet. Let's get this thing resolved, and we'll go from there."

  20

  "Yes, sir," Harris said. "Can I get you something, sir? You don't look so good."

  "No, I'm fine," James said, not exactly lying but not telling the complete truth either.

  He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He hadn't slept in more than twenty-four

  hours. He'd barely eaten. He couldn't remember how many cups of coffee he had

  consumed. He could see no light at the end of the tunnel.

  "To misunderstand the nature and threat of evil is to risk being blind- sided by it," the vice president had often heard James MacPherson say. And, "Evil, unchecked, is the prelude to genocide."

  As Harris got back on the phone with some producer in Atlanta, James thought

  about MacPherson's comments. He had given most of the best years of his life trying to

  protect his country, but what did he have to show for it? He'd certainly thought he

  understood the nature and threat of evil. He thought he'd been prepared for the worst.

  But now it seemed he was mistaken. Apparently he hadn't had a clue. And it wasn't

  over yet.

  * * *

  Caulfield was ranting.

  At the top of his lungs, he was decrying the immorality of starting a war with North

  Korea. Didn't the president know Pyongyang had nuclear weapons? Didn't he know they had chemical and biological weapons?

  "The CIA says a war with North Korea could cause a million casualties," Caulfield screamed. "A million souls. A million people with parents, and brothers, and sisters, and cousins, and friends. And for what? What do we gain? The right to say we won? Who

  cares? Who cares if there is so much death, so much suffering, so much destruction?"

  Two agents took up positions in the hallway, prepared to throw flash grenades on cue.

  Six more agents were behind them—three at each end of the hallway, ready to storm the

  room and take their target out when so ordered.

  "Haven't enough people died?" Caulfield continued, his ranting turning to tears, and his tears turning to sobs. "Haven't enough people suffered? How many more will it take, Mr. President? How many more?"

  McKittrick stared at the monitor and pressed his headphones more tightly to his ears,

  trying to get every nuance from the audio feed. "He's losing it," he told his team. "All agents stand by."

  Tears were streaming down Caulfield's face, but his eyes were still open. Indeed, he

  was staring at Judge Summers, who was too close to the conference room door for

  McKittrick's purposes. He kept waiting. A few more seconds. Just a few more. The

  moment Caulfield looked away, or down, or closed his eyes, even for an instant, McKittrick would call for the attack. He'd pump in the gas, cut the power, send in his men, and hope to God the president made it through in one piece.

  But Caulfield kept staring at the judge. His tears were slowing. His breathing was

  becoming more measured. He wasn't shouting now. He was just mumbling something. But

  what? McKittrick turned up the volume on the monitor and pressed the headphones still

  tighter. What in the world was Caulfield saying? Whatever it was, he was saying it over and over again.

  McKittrick picked up the remote control on the table in front of him. He started to

  21

  zoom in to Caulfield's mouth, trying to read his lips. Then all of a sudden he got it.

  Caulfield was mumbling, "It's over. It's over. It's over. . . ."

  NO! McKittrick thought.

  He grabbed his wrist-mounted radio. "Code Red, go now—go, go, go."

  But it was too late.

  Caulfield stepped back, closed his eyes, and shot the president in the head. Then he

  opened his mouth, shoved the 9 mm inside, and pulled the trigger.

  22

  8:01 A.M. EST-MOUNT WEATHER COMMAND CENTER

  Vice President James stared at the TV in shock.

  All color instantly drained from his face. His body began shaking. He couldn't

  believe what he had just seen. His brain refused to process the images, much less the

  implications. He couldn't hear the screams, the gasps, the commotion moving across the

  command center floor one flight below. He never heard Ginny Harris scream or saw Agent

  Santini physically lurch backward—as if someone had punched him in the stomach—at the

  sight of the president being shot through the right temple.

  James just stared at the flickering screen. His eyes began to glaze. The colors around him began to fade. The room began to spin. And then his stomach convulsed and there was a

  burning sensation at the back of his throat. Before he realized what was happening, the vice president of the United States was retching his guts out. Given that he had barely eaten anything in nearly twenty-four hours, there wasn't much coming up. But that didn't slow down the intense, violent convulsions ripping through his system.

  He didn't hear Santini radio for backup or notice agents and medics rushing into the

  office. He would later notice General Stephens there too, pulled out of a war planning meeting with a dozen other generals in the situation room three floors down. But for the moment, all he knew was that the vomiting wouldn't stop, and he suddenly began to fear for his life.

  * * *

  The army Black Hawk helicopter came in low and fast.

  It circled the landing pad twice until the pilots received clearance, then touched down amid a platoon of heavily armed Marines.

  A colonel rushed out and opened the chopper's side door. "Chuck Murray?
" he shouted above the roar of the rotors.

  "Yes, sir;" the former White House press secretary replied. "Follow me."

  Murray grabbed his garment bag, briefcase, and laptop and climbed out of the

  helicopter, moving quickly to keep up with the colonel and ducking instinctively to keep from having his head sliced off by the rotors, though there was no real threat of that. The colonel gave him a temporary ID badge and coded in at a side door into the NORAD com-23

  plex. They worked their way through an MP checkpoint, complete with X-rays, metal detectors, and bomb-sniffing dogs, and proceeded down a hallway toward the war room.

  Exhausted, Murray asked if there was a place he could shower and change before meeting

  General Briggs and the president.

  The colonel stopped in his tracks. "General Briggs?" he asked in disbelief.

  "Yes, sir," Murray replied. "I was told to check in with the general as soon as I arrived and then he'd take me to see the president. I know it's urgent, but I'm going to need fifteen minutes or so."

  The colonel just stared at Murray.

  "Something wrong, Colonel?" Murray asked.

  "Actually, there is, sir."

  "What?" Murray replied. "Because I can certainly shower and change later if .. . If

  "No," the colonel interrupted. "It's not that."

  "Then what?"

  "You haven't been told?"

  "Told what?"

  "They're dead, sir."

  "Dead? Who's dead?"

  "General Briggs . . . and the president."

  * * *

  Lee James woke up in General Stephens's private quarters.

  He didn't know how long he'd been asleep. He just knew how weak he felt, and how sad

  and utterly alone. He couldn't shake the images of Bill Oaks being shot to death in that conference room. Or of Bobby Caulfield putting a bullet through his own head. He had

  experienced more death in the last few days than he would ever have imagined. His tours in Vietnam with the Marines seemed tame by comparison.