The 14th Colony: A Novel (53 page)

That thought paralyzed him.

He reminded himself that a nuclear bomb lay just a few feet away. If it exploded he would be utterly vaporized. The only saving grace would be that this torture—and that’s what it was—would be over. But he could not allow that to happen. Too many people above were counting on him. So he kept crawling, shoulders passing his elbows, kicking with his toes.

He made it to the bomb.

The chute here was maybe twenty-four inches tall at most. Not much room to even open the case. Jostling it around, trying to pull it back for more room to work would take time and could be catastrophic. He saw that its latches were free. He laid the light where it held the case in its beam and carefully opened the lid enough so that his hand could enter.

He felt the stainless-steel cylinder.

Hot.

He recalled what Daniels had advised and flicked the toggle but, to be sure, his fingers probed and found the wires springing from the battery poles.

He yanked them free.

Sparks triggered inside.

His eyes went wide.

He waited for a blast as hot and bright as the sun, a blinding phosphorous light he’d see only for a millisecond.

But nothing.

Another few seconds.

Still nothing.

His prison was ice-cold, the air nearly impossible to breathe. He was truly in the bowels of the earth. He lay still and stared at the case, his hand resting inside. He moved his fingers and again found the cylinder. Already not nearly as hot. Only warm and fading fast. He kept touching, then gripping. Touching, gripping.

The cylinder was definitely cooling.

He’d made it.

The damn thing was disarmed.

Time to leave.

He tried to back out, but couldn’t. He tried again, but the ultratight space restricted his movements. When he tried to force it, dirt fell, clogging the air. Suddenly everything around him seemed to be contracting even more, bearing down, crushing him.

More earth rained down on his spine.

The chute seemed to be resenting his intrusion.

He was stuck.

Mother of God.

What the—

The chute collapsed.

And he screamed.

*   *   *

Cassiopeia hustled as fast as the tunnel would allow, using her phone for illumination. She could only imagine what Cotton was experiencing. He hated tight places. This was tough even for her, and she wasn’t necessarily bothered by them. She’d moved a long way into the ground, maybe a hundred meters, the tunnel becoming progressively smaller, when she heard a shriek.

From ahead.

Not far.

She increased her pace and finally saw where the tunnel became more of a slit, closed onto itself.

There was movement.

Shards of light seeped out.

Oh, God.

Cotton was buried.

*   *   *

Malone lost it.

He could not remember the last time, if ever, he’d screamed. He felt silly and weak. The stink of his own fear had finally hammered him into submission. He closed his eyes as the reality of the situation washed over him. He heaved at his leaden body, arms and legs cramping with pain. He was buried, barely able to breathe, his brain locked with only one thought.

Get out.

How could—

“Cotton.”

He grabbed hold of himself.

A voice.

Firm, resonant, authoritative.

And familiar.

Cassiopeia.

Just hearing her yanked him back from the precipice.

“I’m here,” he said, trying hard to keep control.

Hands grabbed his shoes. The sensation of her touch calmed him. The dual grip on his ankles told his addled brain that he might be okay.

Hold on. Take it easy. Help is here.

“I’m sealed. I … can’t get out.”

“You can now,” she said.

*   *   *

Cassiopeia had dug her way in, tossing dirt out behind her, burrowing furiously until she’d found Cotton’s feet. She now kept a firm grip on his ankles and wiggled herself back out of the chute. Being smaller gave her a few more precious centimeters in which to maneuver.

The scream had been his, and she knew why.

If there was any concept of hell, which she did not necessarily believe in, this would be Cotton’s.

*   *   *

Malone wiggled his way backward, Cassiopeia helping things along with solid pulls on his legs. Just a few more feet and he’d be free of this coffin. He’d left the case and flashlight. Others could retrieve them later. He just wanted out. His feet and legs escaped the chute, back into the cramped three-by-three-foot tunnel, which seemed like Grand Central Station compared with where he’d just been.

He was on his knees, his breathing ragged but calming. A light came on from a phone and he saw Cassiopeia’s face. Like an angel.

“The bomb?” she asked.

“I got it.”

“You okay?”

He heard the concern and nodded.

But he wasn’t.

He dragged air into his aching lungs and fought a coughing fit, his whole body heaving, throat still filled with bile and fear.

She reached over and clasped his wrist. “I mean it. Are you okay? It’s just you and me here.”

“I was … buried.”

He knew his dirty face reflected pain and pleading, his features clawed with terror, but he did not try to hide any of it. Why? She’d heard his scream, revealing a vulnerability that someone like him would never want exposed. But they’d made a pact. No more bullshit.

So he decided to honor it.

He stared into her eyes, grateful for what she had done, and said what he felt. “I love you.”

CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

W
HITE
H
OUSE

M
ONDAY
, J
ANUARY
21

5:45
P.M.

Stephanie studied the Oval Office, the room now clear of anything to do with the administration of Robert Edward Daniels Jr. Warner Scott Fox had taken the oath, as prescribed by the Constitution, yesterday at 12:00 noon. She’d stood just outside the Blue Room and watched, everything broadcast live to the world. The whole time both she and Edwin had wondered if they’d all be blown to dust from an underground nuclear explosion, but nothing had happened.

Cotton had done his job.

Which had allowed for the second ceremony today outside the Capitol. Fox had spoken in the cold for half an hour with a surprising eloquence, energy, and courage. The new president had enjoyed the inaugural parade, then returned to Blair House to prepare for an evening on the town, he and his wife moving from one ball to another. But first Danny had asked to speak with him, choosing here, in his old haunt, for a final conversation.

The gang was all there.

Cotton, Cassiopeia, Edwin Davis, and herself.

She’d reported everything to Danny yesterday, just after the swearing-in. She’d wanted to tell Fox, but Danny had vetoed that idea.

Not yet,
he’d said.

A partial report, she knew, had been provided on the incident with Jamie Kelly and the four cases that had been found. She imagined that information would have sent shivers through Fox. Luke was doing fine, wanting out of the hospital, but the doctors had told him one more day. The younger Daniels had been informed, though, as to what had happened, and was pleased things worked out.

The door opened and President Fox entered the office alone, decked out in black tie and tails, looking quite dapper.

“You know,” Fox said to Danny with a smile, “you do have to leave at some point.”

The Sunday twitch in things had made the customary departure of the outgoing president a non-newsworthy event. Usually, just after the Capitol ceremony, the former president was seen waving to reporters and flying off from Andrews Air Force Base. Not this time. Danny had watched Fox take the oath yesterday, spending a final night in the White House, then gawking a second time today before retreating here to leave with his things.

“I’m on the way out the door,” Danny said. “But first we need to have a chat.”

“I feel a little outnumbered,” Fox said. “Should I ask my staff to join us?”

“Let’s keep this between the few of us.”

“I’m sensing that everyone here knows something I should.”

“We tried to tell you things were bad and you wouldn’t listen,” Danny said. “Instead, your people went behind my back and tried to recruit my girl over there as a spy. And, yes, on my orders, she was playing them.”

Fox said nothing. But men like him did not appreciate being cornered. In fact, they spent their whole lives avoiding right angles. This was classic Danny Daniels, though. The Tennessee Torture, as members of Congress and the cabinet had called it.

“Are you referring to the four bombs seized yesterday?” Fox asked. “I was briefed. They weren’t even activated.”

“They were decoys,” Danny said.

And the Secret Service had done a good job diverting public attention from them, labeling Jamie Kelly as some sort of exhibitionist, trying to prove a point, who ended up dead. The “bombs” found were fake. “Security teams doing their job” had also been the explanation used for the helicopter landing on the North Lawn.

“There was a bomb,” Danny said. “Six kilotons, placed directly beneath the White House in an old tunnel.”

“And I wasn’t told?” Fox asked.

“I wanted that privilege.”

“I’m going to have to speak to the Secret Service about their loyalty. Since noon yesterday, I’ve been in charge around here.”

“Not on this operation. You told us to handle it. We did. Now it’s over, so we’re reporting back, as you requested.”

Hard to argue with that logic, since it was all true.

“Okay, Danny. I get your point. As to recruiting Stephanie, that was a clear miscalculation on my attorney general’s part. When he told me what he’d done I was not pleased. That’s not my style.”

Danny nodded. “I get that. I’ve had Lone Rangers, too.”

A couple even tried to kill him,
she thought.

“But I am wondering,” Fox said, “how no one knew a tunnel existed beneath this building.”

Stephanie nearly smiled. Fox was trying to score a few points of his own.

Danny reached down to the Resolute desk and retrieved the Tallmadge journal that she’d handed over to him yesterday. “This is some interesting reading.”

And Danny told Fox about the Society of Cincinnati, then said, “It all started with the War of 1812. We wanted Canada to be our 14th colony, to be part of the great United States. But the British didn’t want us to have it. We burned Toronto, so they came and burned DC. We’ve done some checking and discovered that, a long time ago, we did know about the tunnel. Records show it was shut down during the Civil War. By then it had collapsed beneath the White House, so they sealed it on this end, then went over to St. John’s, dug it out from the cellar, and bricked up that side. No one at the church even knew it existed. Not wanting to draw any attention to its presence during a time of civil war, they just quietly got rid of it. If not for the fact that the Cincinnati Society kept a record, it would have stayed forgotten. And if not for the excellent work of the people in this room, along with my nephew who’s in the hospital thanks to all this, we’d be dead. Cotton stopped the bomb maybe seconds before it would have exploded.”

Fox glanced at Malone, but said nothing.

Danny went on. “And to top it off, the guy you specifically wanted as the go-between to keep you informed decided he wanted to be president. So he didn’t tell you that a bomb was there. Instead, he ran like a dog on fire and got as far away from here as he could.”

Surprise now filled Fox’s face. “What do you mean?”

Stephanie said, “I called from the helicopter and told Litchfield to warn you and everyone else. There was time then to get away. But Litchfield used that time for himself. If we’d all died in a nuclear blast, he’d be president right now. He was at the swearing-in, saw that the secretaries of state, treasury, and defense were all there—each of whom are ahead of him in the line of succession—so when I called and told him what was happening, he just left.”

The implications hit home.

“That sorry son of a bitch.”

“Can you imagine,” Danny said, clearly enjoying this. “The designated survivor comes out from his assigned hiding place, ready to take command, then Litchfield shows up and says, ‘Excuse me, I’m still here and you’re not the one. The AG outranks you on the list, and the succession law says the highest qualified person on the ladder wins.’ I guess he figured he’d pay us both back.”

“He’s fired.”

Danny chuckled. “He’s worse than that.”

Fox seemed puzzled.

“Cotton found him a few hours ago,” Danny said. “He owed him one for wanting to leave him to rot in Siberia. So I had him pass on both his own and our collective displeasure. How many broken ribs?”

“More than one,” Cotton said. “We had a spirited discussion on presidential succession. Along the way, Mr. Litchfield decided that he would be pursuing other career opportunities and tendered his resignation. Then he went to find a doctor.”

“You beat him up?” Fox asked Cotton.

“Absolutely.”

The new president seemed pleased. “Then that’s that. Everything is tied up.”

“Not exactly,” Danny said. “Stephanie here quit yesterday, which you may or may not know.”

“I was told.”

“You need her, Warner.”

Danny’s deep tone had changed. Lower. More conciliatory.

“This a shakedown?” Fox asked.

Which she was wondering, too.

Danny shrugged. “Call it what you want. But I don’t think you want me tellin’ the world that we all came within moments of having hundreds of thousands of people vaporized, all because you wanted to be sworn in on live TV inside the White House at noon. Not to mention that your people actively tried to interfere with an ongoing investigation that was working to reveal the plot. Then, when I add in the conspiracy with Litchfield and his betrayal, wow, we’ve got ourselves a TV series. It’ll run for weeks on every news outlet in the country. What was it you said on Saturday?
‘We’ll never get on message.’”