Extraction Page 14

  "Thanks—we’re going to need it." The president hung up the red phone and leaned back, staring at the empty walls of the Oval Office. The bookcases, the low serving tables, presidential portraits—everything had been removed to Denver. He supposed they'd end up turning the White House into a museum…after. For a brief moment, he entertained the thought of dismantling the most recognizable house in the world, brick by brick, and rebuilding it in Denver.

  The president ran a hand through his hair and stood up. He stretched his back, feeling the vertebrae snap and pop as he relieved the tension in his overworked muscles. Other than the brief, two-hour nap he'd taken early that morning, he’d been going nonstop for almost two whole days. He didn't need the White House doctors to tell him he was too old for that kind of behavior—his body was more than happy to remind him every waking moment.

  He walked around the temporary presidential desk to temporary coffee serving station and picked up a coffee cup, preferring to pour himself stale, but strong coffee rather than ask for Gus or one of the other staff to get him some fresh stuff. He needed a hard slap of caffeine to wake his numb spirit.

  The curved door to the Oval Office burst open and his Chief of Staff, Vale Klaussman, looking more harried than ever in a disheveled suit with his tie loose around his neck, rushed into the room carrying a stack of manila folders and his ever-present tablet.

  "She's not there. None of them are."

  The president paused, the coffee cup halfway to his mouth. "Who's not where?" he asked before taking a sip. As he swallowed, his fatigued mind caught up with the words he’d just spoken and his body froze.

  “Renolds?"

  Klaussman nodded abruptly. "The CTSB is finally on the ground. They did an initial sweep, then reviewed the Irish data. There's no bodies or parts or anything on the beach. They can say with almost a certainty that there were no people on that plane when it crashed. Of course, they’re not saying anything, but it’s plain as day—she got away."

  The president turned and stared out the curved windows over the South Lawn. In the distance, gaudy multicolored banners, placards, and signs flashed and waved in the waning sunlight. He almost wanted to throw open the blast-proof windows and listen to the protesters inane shouts—it would lend a much-needed sense of realism that he didn't have just then, thinking about how Jayne Renolds had managed to vanish into thin air—again—and take the entire crew of a military transport with her.

  “Dammit,” the president muttered.

  "We have a lead…" Klaussman said, “But with your orders to run the deep fake operation, we’ll have to shift this to something a lot more covert.”

  “Absolutely, I don’t want anyone getting wind of this, Vale.” The president glanced over his shoulder.

  "Yeah." Klaussman poured himself a cup of coffee. "Initial review of the black box suggests the exterior hatch was blown about ten miles offshore. They jumped." He took a drink, then spat the coffee against the wall. "Jesus, Orren, this is disgusting! How long has this been sitting here? It taste like tar!"

  A lopsided grin creased the president's face. "It woke you up though, didn't it?"

  Klaussman slumped in one of the remaining chairs in front of the temporary executive desk. "We know they blew the hatch well offshore, and nobody was on it when it crashed. Navy’s tracking down all boats that may have been in the area at the time." He rested his head on one hand glanced up at the president. "It's a depressingly large list. I don’t think I need to tell you, sir, this deep ‘fake thing’ is a bad idea in my book.”

  “Did anybody see anything?” asked the president, ignoring his chief of staff’s regrets. “Seems like everybody and their brother has a damn webcam pointed at the sky these days—or their neighbors, or the ocean, or some damn thing.” He put his hands on his hips. “You mean to tell me that we can't find anyone on the entire planet that has any pictures or…" The president waved his hands in futility, his exhausted mind failing to come up with appropriate words.

  Klaussman leaned back in the chair closed his eyes, resting his head against the cushioned back. "Langley's got everyone they can spare working on it. NSA too. They're going to crack every camera and weather station between Ireland and France. Somebody saw something, it's just a matter of finding out who and what, and locking that shit down so the deep fake can take root."

  The president turned to look out the windows. "It's always a matter of time." He closed his hand into a fist and rapped his knuckles against the windowsill. "That bitch is out there right now, laughing at us. She got away again." He stared for a long moment at the protesters. “But Vale…this time, it feels different. If feels like we’re making a difference.”

  "Have you made a decision on Korea?" asked Klaussman, adroitly changing the subject, his eyes still closed. The president watched Klaussman’s reflection in the window. He looked exhausted.

  President Harris frowned, his eyes sweeping over the demonstrators again, focusing on a large pink placard with a blood-red peace symbol. "I don't think there's much of a decision to make—they invaded the United States. We don't have the assets in place to take back what was lost—yet—but we sure as hell can make sure it never happens again."

  That got Klaussman to look up. "Sir, have any of the phone calls you've made shed any more light on the international situation? Because from where I'm sitting,” he said, lifting a folder from his pile, “State is convinced we can’t do this unilaterally.”

  "I just got off the phone with the Prime Minister of Great Britain…"

  Klaussman waved a hand. "Sir, with all due respect, you know as well as I do—nobody wants to back us. With China and Russia set to take over the UN as we pull out, they're not going to make things too difficult for themselves. This whole mess has completely tipped the global balance of power away from the United States."

  "That's not what Admiral Bennett suggested—"

  Klaussman jumped to his feet, dropping his folders and scattering papers on the floor. He ignored the mess and stepped closer to the president. "Sir, you know as well as I do that the military is always going to opt for war. They're proud of this nation—and they should be—" he said, holding up a hand to forestall argument. "But you hired me to be your closest advisor and to never give you a yes-man answer. The day you brought me on, you told me you wanted to hear my opinion, you wanted to hear the truth—no matter how painful or embarrassing." Klaussman stood straighter. "Is that still true?”

  The president didn’t hesitate. “You know it is.”

  Klaussman nodded. “Well, I'm here, and I'm going to tell you the truth. If we go after North Korea, we’re doing it alone, and we risk igniting World War III. The Russians and the Chinese aren’t going to stand by while we glass North Korea. There's going to be fallout all over the place, from the international treaty ramifications that will completely scrub the balance of power in the Asian-Pacific, to an estimated 3 million strong refugee crisis that's going to flood China and Eastern Siberia. Once the bombs start to fall, North Korean citizens are going to panic and run, scattering like cockroaches. It's their best chance at escaping that crazy-ass country before we wipe it off the map.”

  “So what?" asked the president, slamming his fist on the windowsill. He ignored the pain in his knuckles and spun to face his Chief of Staff. "The sons of bitches invaded our country! How many millions of Americans have died so far? I'm not even talking about the goddamn bioweapon they helped unleash! I'm talking about the Occupation Zone! I'm talking about California! They fucking conquered part of the United States! I will not let that stand, sir!"

  Klaussman nodded, the color draining from his face. “Mr. President, there's nobody that's more upset about this than me—my entire family’s in San Francisco. I haven't heard a word from my father or my brothers since we lost President Denton."

  The president put a trembling hand to his temple and closed his eyes. "Christ, Vale—I’m sorry. I forgot…"

  Klaussman looked away. "It doesn't matter, Mr. Pres
ident,” he said, his voice taking on a formal tone. “We've all lost people in this mess. We've all lost friends—we’ve all lost something.” He looked back at the president. “My point is, we might possibly compound that loss by making things ten times worse for the next generation."

  "You're talking about a global conflict."

  "You're damn right I am, sir. This is just the kind of excuse China needs to retake Taiwan. If that happens there's no telling what the Japanese might do to protect their territorial waters—the Chinese have been encroaching on the Southern Islands for decades now. And despite the reports, I’d bet good money the Russians will cause problems in the Pacific, if nothing else than as a distraction—they're looking at a reconquest of their own."

  "Ukraine and Belarus," the president exhaled. “It never ends, does it?”

  "That's right, sir—the Kremlin wants to continue Putin’s pre-Pandemic expansionist policy, and this would be the perfect opportunity. We’d be too distracted dealing with Korea to worry about Eastern Europe and NATO will be left holding the sack.”

  The president sighed. “I understand all that, Vale, I've been to the same briefings you have—"

  "But I don't think you’ve been getting as much sleep as I have,” persisted Klaussman, despite the president’s lowered brows. “And I think it’s affecting your judgment. Sir, there's rumors among the cabinet that if you don't get some rest and take a break, people will start looking for signs that your coming unhinged. The constant protests outside are having an effect—I heard a junior staffer say just today that having the vice president take over temporarily might not be a bad idea."

  The president's eyes widened. "But he won't do anything! He's already told me he thinks we should wait until after the special elections next month." President Harris shook his head. "I've talked to the Chief Justice—if the elections go through as planned next month, it'll be years before we sort out the legality of it all—but if we don’t, we’re going to be operating with half a government, and every decision we make today will be disputed and litigated tomorrow. He thinks we’re fucked either way we turn, but postponing the election would be political suicide. He also agrees thinks that waiting on North Korea could be literally suicidal.”

  “Sir, can we really hold an election with most of the West Coast unable to cast ballots? They’re still American citizens aren’t they?” argued Klaussman. “If we disenfranchise that many millions of people, won't the results be invalid?"

  "It's a real constitutional crisis, I admit that,” the president said, “but we've got to—"

  “Sir, that’s just it—what harm could there be if we just wait till the elections—”

  The president turned, barely containing his temper. He clenched his fists. "No, we can't wait any longer. It's been over six goddamn months since they first attacked us. By the time we have the election," he said, pointing at his Klaussman, "they will have had more than half a year to entrench. Every day we delay will make it that much harder to retake our land, to liberate our citizens! We can't wait any longer."

  "Mr. President, I hate to have to tell you this, but there are some elements in Congress that have announced…” Klaussman squared his shoulders and took a breath. “Sir, if you plan to go ahead and bring us into a unilateral conflict, they'll invoke the War Powers Act and shut it down."

  "Fucking limp-wristed…scheming…mother…sons of…dammit!” the president exclaimed, stuttering in his anger and throwing his hands in the air. He took a breath, then stuffed his hands in his pockets, and turned from Klaussman to hide the fact that his hands were trembling—with anger or exhaustion, he couldn't tell, and didn't want to take the time to find out. But he didn’t need Klaussman spreading any gossip.

  "What's your recommendation then?" he said, after a long moment staring out the window and not seeing anything in particular. His heart rate slowly came back under control.

  You have to stay calm to navigate these waters. They want to push you to the edge and hope you jump off…

  The president’s face hardened and a resolve he’d never known solidified his spine. His hands stopped trembling.

  "I think we need to put ourselves into a holding pattern for the time being,” Klaussman said, his voice echoing the fatigue President Harris felt.

  The president wouldn’t give in. “That flies right in the face with what the Joint Chiefs advise."

  Klaussman’s reflection shrugged in the window. "Are you really surprised, sir? They’ve spent their whole lives training for shit like this. Of course they want to fight—that's what they do. That’s all they do.”

  The bitterness in Klaussman’s voice took the president by surprise. He responded in kind. “Maybe that's what needs to be done…"

  "No sir," the Chief of Staff argued. "You need to lead—you're the President of the United States, it's what you do."

  The president's shoulders slumped. He stared at the protesters in the distance. "Lately, it seems the only thing I can do is watch as the country falls apart."

  A soft rapping at the open door caused the president to turn and look past Klaussman, welcoming any interruption. His secretary entered. "Mr. President, it's time for your afternoon update from the Joint Chiefs."

  The president sighed, then nodded, giving her permission to send them in. He adjusted his coat and straightened his tie.

  "Mr. President—" Klaussman said, reaching out pleadingly.

  "You had your say," the president said, a little harsher than he'd meant. "I need to hear all the options before I can lead."

  21

  Metamorphosis

  Isle of Man, United Kingdom

  Jayne eyed the monitors positioned over her recovery bed. The surgery had been a success, according to the doctors. It better have been, for the amount of money she’d paid them. The situation in Moscow…that was another matter. Braaten was proving to be a more resourceful opponent than she’d expected.

  She frowned, looking at the shaky video feed from Mikhailovich’s dacha, just outside the western suburbs of Moscow. The bratva had already failed to take down Braaten in the Ambassador’s Residence. They had surprise and numbers on their side, and still the former SEAL had slipped through and eradicate the team sent to take him out.

  She clenched her hands and squeezed the armrests on her custom recovery bed/chair. The damn thing was far too soft for her likes, but she didn’t figure on being bedridden much longer. She had board meetings to run and teleconferences with the heads of some of her recent acquisitions—especially the aerospace company, Orbital Dynamics. They were ready to launch the world’s first self-replicating satellite as a proof-of-concept and she was excited to see the launch in person.

  Two weeks to heal from facial reconstructive surgery…no one ever said this job would be easy…

  Jayne brushed her fingertips across the gauze on her face. She had taken a glimpse in the mirror in the bathroom attached to her recovery suite and almost laughed. She resembled a rather disheveled blonde mummy.

  Jayne sighed, welcoming the ache in her cheeks. The temporary prosthetics she’d worn to the consortium board meeting in Geneva were permanent now, altering her facial structure to fool even the latest facial recognition algorithms used by the CIA.

  Have to color my hair now too, I suppose…wonder if I’ll even recognize myself?

  She wasn’t a natural blonde, but had taken on the guise of the blonde haired, blue-eyed sex machine for so long, it seemed beyond strange to appear as anything else. Lisa Melton, President and CEO of Jaynesway Industries, however, was a hazel-eyed brunette. Jayne had wanted green eyes, but MacTavish had impressed upon her the desirability of a concept he called “going gray.”

  Thinking of the argument made her mouth twitch, sending a spike of pain up the side of her face. “Green eyes always made an impression on people,” he’d argued, “but the brown-eyed lass is just another woman, ye ken?”

  Jayne snorted. She kenned she’d never be “just another woman,” so she chose a
hazel color for her eyes that was so flecked with gold as to appear almost amber. The laser treatment was painless—the doctor’s assured her—and would be the last step in her transformation. They wanted her to heal from the facial reconstruction first.

  Restless, she put her hands back on the plush armrests and strummed her fingers, tapping out a random beat as her eyes narrowed and she focused on the monitor. The display showed Mikhailovich’s strongman laying into the American Ambassador with gusto. Even through the grainy image, she could see blood splatter with every hit of those hammock fists. She ignored the show and focused on the wife, Kyrsten Marquadt, former board member for her very own Orbital Dynamics.

  Light brown hair, nice tits, trim body, but not quite athletic. Jayne nodded to herself during her observation. Mrs. Marquadt was of medium height and definitely more attractive than the ambassador deserved. Dirty old goat. She was totally a trophy wife.

  The frown that formed on Jayne’s lips caused a sharp intake of breath as a fresh wave of pain shot up the side of her face. She closed her eyes, concentrating on blocking the signals from her abused nerves. To help take her mind off the mess her face had become, she considered the ambassador’s wife again.

  Kyrsten Marquadt, nee Challis was the daughter of the former Founder, CEO, and Chairman of the Board of Directors of Orbital Dynamics. When daddy retired, she’d succeeded to the board as a junior member—on her own merits, supposedly—with hardly a trace of nepotism to stain her record. Apparently her father had been quite the hard ass. Kyrsten had earned her position.

  Jayne smirked, ignoring the pain. She knew a thing or two about difficult fathers. A brief memory of Senator Thaddeus Brandt flitted through her mind, bringing with it more pain than any surgery could provide. She closed her eyes against the memory of the bloody knife she’d pulled from his chest.