The Shift: Book II of the Wildfire Saga (53 page)

Jayne looked pensive for a moment as she stood in the doorway.
 
She glanced over her shoulder and the impish smile returned as she looked back at Barron.
 
"Between you and me, I feel the same way.”
 
She walked to him and knelt next to his chair.
 
She slipped a hand up her skirt and it emerged holding a small cell phone.
 
"Here,” she said slipping him the phone under the desk.
 
“It’s untraceable."

Barron arched an eyebrow.
 
"A present?
 
For me?
 
You shouldn't have…"

"You owe me," she said and winked.

Oh, I certainly do.
 
Barron pocketed the cell phone, self-consciously attempting to see where the cameras were hidden in the room.
 
There was no way Reginald could've missed the transfer.
 
Was this a test or a trap?
 
If he were to use Jayne’s cell in an attempt to call Harris’ people, it may look like trying to break the control they had over him… He kissed the top of her head and slapped her ass as she walked away with another giggle.

When the door closed behind her, he sighed and forced himself to stare at a wall with a blank expression on his face.
 
As if he were still in a drug–induced stupor.
 
Must keep the show going, Reginald is watching…

He ruminated on how he could strike back at Reginald while he observed the room.
 
No matter which angle he came at the problem, it always ended with the same resolution.
 
Reginald would find out and Jayne or someone just like her would slip into his office and put a bullet in his head.

He frowned.
 
Maybe that's what I deserve?
 
Hundreds of thousands of innocent people died in Atlanta because I gave my codes to Reginald.
 
Doesn't that deserve some punishment?
 
Doesn't that warrant death?
 
Yet, a small voice of resistance replied in the back of his mind:
Doesn't that warrant at least an attempt at redemption?
 

He sighed again.
 
In the end it didn't matter.
 
He was a dead man and he knew it.
 
When his usefulness ceased to please Reginald or when he tipped off Jayne at some point, they would come for him.
 
He doubted they would have the courage to do it to his face.
 
Someone would slip him a needle that he couldn't feel in the middle of the night—maybe Jayne herself—and he would never wake again.
 
He’d become just a sad footnote in American history, if America even survived what Reginald had planned.

An iron resolution took hold of his soul and refused to release him.
 
He shook his head.
 
No, I have to do something.
 
I can't sit back and wait to die.
 
It doesn't matter what happens to me, as long as I can stop them.

Newfound courage filled his body with a strength he hadn't felt since before election night.
 
He had accepted his fate and it felt good.
 

He put Jayne's secret phone in the top desk drawer and reached for the phone on top of the desk.
 
He pushed the intercom button and called out "Alice, please cancel my afternoon appointments and inform the Joint Chiefs we will not be having a briefing this afternoon."
 
He tried to put as much confidence as possible into his voice.

"Are you sure?
 
Sir?"

He was positive that Alice worked for Reginald.
 
He was also sure that no matter what he did, Reginald was going to find out.
 
"Absolutely," he lied.
 
"I'm going to take a walking tour—check in with the troops."

"
Of course, sir
," Alice’s voice replied, uncertainty dripping off every word.
 
"
I'll inform the Joint Chiefs, Mr. President
.”

"Thank you," Barron said and released the intercom button.

There, now he had time to think.
 
Now he had time to plan.
 
The hairs lifted on the back of his neck as he realized he was being watched.
 
He opened the drawer, reached in to grab Jayne’s cell phone, then shut it abruptly, his hand empty.
 
He drummed his fingers on the desk a moment, trying to decide if he could actually go through with his new plan.

After a moment, he set his jaw and opened the drawer again, ignoring the clammy sensation from his chest and picked up Jayne’s phone.
 
He flipped open the outdated phone and looked through its contacts.
 
Perhaps Reginald isn’t aware of this phone, after all.

The contact list included the heads-of-state of most of the NATO member nations, high-ranking members of Congress, himself—of course—Presidents Denton and Harris, and a handful of Europeans with names he did not recognize.
 
One of them had a note that said ‘Council’.

Council?
 
Council of what?

The more he played with her phone, the more he felt it was a trap.
 
Analysis paralysis set in.
 
If he didn't use the phone?
 
Would Jayne be monitoring it—would she know?
 
What signal would that send?
 
And if he
did
use the phone?
 
Reginald surely had it tapped—he could not believe that even someone Reginald trusted as much as Jayne would be allowed to freely communicate with the enemy…

Did that make him an enemy now?

Barron closed the phone and put it back in the desk.
 
He felt a headache coming on and rubbed his head—it felt like the beginnings of a monster hangover.
 
He could feel it approach through the fog of his mind.
 
Whatever drugs Jayne fed him on a daily basis, the aftereffects were lingering and sometimes painful.

He stood, walked across the room, and opened a mini-fridge emblazoned with the Presidential Seal.
 
The cool, bottled water helped clear the fog from his mind.
 
His head still ached, but he figured he could find some aspirin somewhere.
 
His physical problems aside, he had bigger fish to fry.

Barron stood there, staring at his desk, the bottle halfway to his lips when it hit him.
 
A way to contact Harris.
 
A way to warn them of the mission that Reginald was planning.
 
A way to throw a monkey wrench in all of Reginald's plans and quite possibly bring the entire operation to a screeching halt.
 
A way to achieve vengeance.

And it all hinged on his authorization code.
 
The same random string of numbers and letters that had allowed Reginald access to the nuclear submarine and America's defense network.
 
The same code that had brought so much death and destruction into the world, might now be used for retribution.

A smile spread across his mouth.
 
He would offer his code to Harris and use it as proof of his good intentions.

A frown creased his face.
 
But how to get a message out?
 
He looked around the Bunker’s Oval Office.
 
A windowless box—the largest office in the underground complex, to be sure, but still little more than a gilded cage.
 
He glanced at the ceiling and for the first time understood that he was six floors underground.
 
The crushing weight of all that dirt and concrete above him sent a trembling ripple of claustrophobic fear down the backs of his legs.
 

His office was a prison.
 
No—a tomb.
 
Barron frowned and took another drink.
 
Perhaps he could use that to his advantage.
 
He folded his arms around the water bottle and paced the room thinking.
 

He had been briefed by the Secret Service when first elected on the survivability of the White House Bunker.
 
It was stocked with more than a year's worth of food for a hundred people.
 
There were plenty of supplies.
 
But, the area immediately surrounding the White House remained under strict quarantine from the Secret Service and Capitol Police—two agencies fiercely loyal to the office of the President.
 

The Secret Service escorted people in and out of the Bunker whenever a document needed to be retrieved from the surface or a satellite link needed to be repaired.
 
There may be a way to get a message to Harris without Reginald knowing…

A soft tap at the door interrupted his thoughts.
 
A young agent poked his head in the door.
 
The President cursed himself for being unable to remember the man's name.
 
He had been with them since day one of the campaign.
 
Before he’d ever met Jayne, before anything seemed abnormal.
 

It was a risk, but no greater and possibly a lot less than just picking up Jayne's phone—or even his own phone—and making a call.
 
To Colorado.

The man's name suddenly hit him.
 
"James," the President said.

"Good afternoon, Mr. President.
 
Just checking in.
 
Is there anything you need, sir?
 
Would you like some lunch?"

“Didn’t you tell me that your father was in the Army?"

The young man smiled.
 
"Yes, sir, I did.
 
That’s kind of you to remember, sir."

Barron smiled.
 
"Tell me again about your family’s service to the nation?
 
It’s been a long morning and I need to decompress.”

James looked over his shoulder and nodded at his partner.
 
The other agent stood at ease and placed his back to the wall on the outside of the door.
 
James shut the door behind him.
 
"Well, sir my family has fought in every American war going back to French and Indian War.
 
1760s, I think.”

The pride in his voice was evident and unmistakable.

Barron smiled as James rattled off facts and history to answer the questions
 
asked of him.
 
Barron had found his carrier pigeon.
 

He may not be loyal to me personally, but loyalty to America is in his blood.
 

C
HAPTER
27

Denver, Colorado.

Emergency National Reserve Operations Center.

The Cave.

T
HE
YOUNG
LIEUTENANT
LOOKED
up from her clipboard.
 
“Excuse me, sir?”

Boatner, the only one not wearing a biohazard suit, sighed.
 
“Susan, please help Mr. Huntley get out of that suit.”

Susan turned to look at another doctor Chad had never seen before wearing a blue biohazard suit.
 
She didn’t look very comfortable with the idea of letting him out, either, but she nodded anyway.
 
“Go ahead, lieutenant.”

“Yes, ma’am,” was the muffled response.

Chad felt the cool air kiss his face as his bubble-helmet was removed.
 
He couldn’t help but smile.
 
God, but it felt good to get out of that thing.
 
He figured there must be at least a quart of sweat in his suit.
 

“It’s good to see you too, Chad,” said Boatner.
 
“May I introduce Major Brenda Alston?” he said, gesturing toward the woman in the blue biohazard suit.
 

“Call me Brenda,” she said, reaching out a gloved hand.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Chad said as he shook hands.
 
He paused, still holding her hand.
 
“You aren’t Captain Alston’s sister, are you?”
 
He saw by the look on her face his words hit home.
 
“Ma’am, I’m so sorry.
 
He saved my life more than once—I thought you were in Los Angeles?”

She tried to smile but it looked broken.
 
“Yes, I was.”
 
She glanced at Boatner.
 
“Don’t worry about Derek—now that he’s here, we’re going to do everything we can for him.”
 
She looked back to her clipboard quickly.
 
“Were you hurt in the crash?” she asked, not meeting his eyes.

Chad understood—he’d seen that reaction before from survivors.
 
He nodded.
 
“Yes, ma’am.
 
I got banged up some—”