SECRETS
A Contemporary Mystery Thriller
DRAFT: 7/22/22
by Candace J Sullivan
88,000 words
1140 Alki Ave SW, #505
Seattle, WA 98116
206-938-7508
206-661-5657 (cell)
MAJOR CHARACTERS
BAINBRIDGE ISLAND PICKLEBALL ASSOCIATION
- Matt Bailey. Executive Assistant to Chuck Wilson. Husband of Grant Peterson
- Suyin Chen. China’s Pacific trade representative
- Kareem Desai. Director of Wilson Center for Advanced Technological Research
- Crowley Fisher. Washington Post investigative reporter. Older brother of Laura Fisher
- Laura Fisher. President and founder of West African Women’s Investment Bank
- Madison “Maddy” Matthews. Successful businesswoman. Washington State senator. Presidential candidate. John Matthews’ daughter
- Grant Peterson. Executive at BTM, leading manufacturer of trucks and military vehicles. Husband of Matt Bailey
- Jim Peterson. Owner and CEO of BTM. Married to Ellen. Grant Peterson’s father
- Jacqueline “Jack” Powers. Wall Street Journal reporter. Daughter of Jefferson Powers
- Jefferson Powers. Retired four-star general. Former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Secretary of Defense, and Director of NSA
- Chuck Wilson. President and CEO of Duwamish Enterprises. Owner of Washington Post
MEXICO
- Alejandro “Alex” Correro. Head of Mexican drug cartel. Half-brother of Jose Martinez
- Giorgio Lopez. Correro’s drug dealer mentor
- Jose Martinez. Mexican Ambassador. Half-brother of Alejandro Correro
OTHERS
- General Claude “Barry” Barrington. President Mobley’s national security advisor
- Sue Ann Bishop. Republican senator from Texas. Chair of Appropriations Committee. Mother of 6-year-old Muffet
- David Kennedy. Director of the FBI Special Select Team investigating the massacre
- George Mobley. President of the United States
- Tom Paine. Secretary of the Interior. In the line of presidential succession
- Carolyn Warner. Democratic senator from Wisconsin. Democratic nominee for president
- Ommo Kanu. Nigerian drug trafficker. President of Kanu Foundation that funds girls’ education
- Dmitry Sokolov. Russian oligarch with political ambitions
- Mikhail Volkof. President of Russia
PART I
CHAPTER 1
Washington, DC
Inauguration Day
The fierce storm swept in just after midnight foreshadowing a perilous end to President George Mobley’s upcoming presidency. The president elect watched immobilized in his White House residence as howling winds lashed torrents of rain against his bedroom window. Outside, trees bent ominously. Each bolt of lightning and crash of thunder heightened his sense of impending doom. Try as he might, he could not repress latent fears that he did not deserve to be president; that pride had set him on a lonely path to an ignoble end.
His eyes caught the family photo that was sitting on a side table. With a lump in his throat, he held it up to the light. Wiping a tear from his eye, he gazed at their beaming faces. He turned the photo face down. Kate had left him, taking son Jamie and daughter Tina with her. He had chosen to believe that their separation was temporary. But months had passed. She rebuffed his plea to be at his side when he took the oath of office. She abjured her role as first lady.
The late President Riley employed flattery to recruit him as his vice-presidential candidate. Kate warned him. “He’s a sleaze. He’ll use you; then toss you aside.” She was right. He was excluded from Riley’s inner circle; his ideas for building a better America quashed.
Riley’s sudden death from a hemorrhagic stroke was a game changer. He was propelled from his obscure vice presidency to the world’s most powerful position. But that didn’t stop Riley antagonists from pressing members of their party to sink his agenda.
“Ignore them,” Kate entreated. “Get out before it destroys our family.”
He might have, had they not pushed him too far. His bipartisan initiative to end drug trafficking was to be his signature achievement before leaving office. They killed it, charging he was a lame duck. That backfired. The next day, he announced his candidacy for reelection against a backdrop of tombstones. “Our borders are porous,” he proclaimed. “My mother is dead because a dealer smuggled in fentanyl labeled as pain medication. It’s time to eliminate the scourge of Mexican cartels.”
Kate didn’t say a word. She just packed up the children and moved to the home they maintained in Connecticut.
He built his campaign around ordinary Americans’ distrust of professional politicians. His light-hearted resort business ads had made him a celebrity. One continued to swept social media. In it, he was wearing an electric green ski jacket and matching cap. He raised his ski poles and flashed a smile. “I’m George Mobley at our GHR Mountain Lodge outside Jackson Hole, Wyoming. He put on goggles, waved to his viewers, and crouched for takeoff. He flew down the ski slope, careen off a mogul, and landed in a snowbank. He dusted himself off, and awkwardly made his way down the mountain, barely missing a tree. On reaching the lodge, he triumphantly pulled off his cap and proclaimed with a grin, “you too can learn to ski like a pro.”
Thousands of his politically inactive fans turned out to vote. Thanks to them and party moderates, he won the primary. Months later, his coalition held firm, earning him a surprise general election victory.
The storm was abating. Flashes of lightning were fainter. Echoes of thunder more distant. Recalling his ad, he had to smile. It had taken him three takes to perfect the fall. He was an expert skier.
Cheered, he returned to bed to catch a few hours of sleep before dawn.
CHAPTER 2
Washington, DC
The wind and downpour left the Capitol surprisingly undamaged. The patriotic bunting that festooned its west front visibly sagged from wind and rain but held firm. Invited guests filled the hundreds of chairs that lined both sides of the Capitol steps. Thousands packed the soggy mall from the Capitol to the Washington Monument to hear the US Marine Band perform and feel part of the inauguration ceremonies.
Delayed by heavy traffic, flooded intersections, and last-minute meetings with staff and security, George had little time to prepare for his grand entrance. He retreated to a men’s room to give his appearance a quick check. He frowned at his reflection. His facial skin was a little flaccid, what remained of his dishwater blond hair tended to fall in his eyes, and he’d grown flabby around the middle. He pulled back his shoulders, stood up straight. He looked presidential with his dark navy American-made Brooks Brothers suit and bright red tie . Nodding approvingly at the transformation, he headed out into the marble corridor that led towards the west front exit to await the signal for his grand entrance.
He strode down the Capitol steps waving to the enthusiastic crowd and flashing his contagious smile. After the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court administered the Oath of Office, he delivered a succinct and somber inaugural address. At the conclusion of the ceremonies, he returned to the warmth of the Capitol building.
At precisely 1:05, he was escorted to the large, two-story, semicircular National Statuary Hall for the Congressionally hosted luncheon. The chamber was packed. He worked the room, weaving his way through the tables that crowded the center of the chamber. A handful of senators had yet to take a stand on his bill to sanction governments that ignored international drug trafficking. He had lobbied all but one, a fortyish blonde in an elegant coral sheath that he suspected cost more than his first mortgage. He knew her by reputation. She was Madison “Maddy” Matthews, the interim senator from the State of Washington. He eased his way through the crowd to greet her. As the Senate’s sole Independent, her vote could make a difference.
“Madam Senator,” he said giving her a flirtatious wink. “George Mobley, lover of the great Pacific Northwest.”
She replied with a twinkle. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“I understand you have some concerns about my bill.”
“Nothing that can’t be rectified. Our state attorney general wants to assure that legitimate drug shipments by our Canadian neighbors won’t be caught up in bureaucratic red tape.”
“I get it,” he said. Turning, he gestured to an aide. “Arrange for the senator to join me for coffee at the White House.” He flashed her a conspiratorial smile. “Assure your attorney general that our final bill will protect legitimate Canadian trade. Now if you’ll excuse me, I see I’m wanted at the head table.”
After lunch he chatted with Congressional allies until a Secret Service agent tapped him on the shoulder. “The parade will begin shortly, Mr. President,” he said.
He slipped into his well-armored limo. He would lead the traditional Inauguration Day parade with its bands, floats, and military drill units to his presidential reviewing stand in front of the White House. He peered out the bullet proof glass at armed officers guarding the parade route. They were dressed in battle fatigues rather than the dress uniforms customarily worn on ceremonial occasions. “Am I imagining things or are there more of them than normal?” he asked his driver, a plain clothed agent. “And what’s with the tactical gear?”
“Protesters are becoming violent. Your security was upped.”
He gestured to the line of parade goers waiting to make it through a security checkpoint about a block away. “Is that necessary?”
His driver shrugged. “Can’t take chances.”
Their limo slowed in front of the Treasury Building. The stop was prearranged. George would walk the final two blocks to the presidential reviewing stand – a temporary shelter located just outside the fence that separated the White House from Pennsylvania Avenue. From there, he and his guests would watch the parade in relative comfort.
Once the driver turned off the ignition, he leapt out. At last, he was in his element. He shook hands, knelt to chat with children, posed for photos, even pushed a wheelchair-bound veteran a few yards down the avenue while thanking him for his service. Buoyed by the crowd’s enthusiasm, qualms of unworthiness submerged into his subconscious.
Naval Academy plebes holding black golf umbrellas met him and his contingent near the reviewing stand. One guided him to a covered walkway. Another ushered him up the short flight of stairs that opened into a long, partially enclosed tent with reception and bleacher areas. Helium-filled red, white, and blue balloons clustered above, adding a note of festivity. Large heating units were strategically placed to provide relief from the cold.
The bleachers were filling with invited guests. He was chatting with Congressional representatives whose support he needed to pass his anti-trafficking bill when he felt his secure cell phone vibrate. It was an urgent text from his national security advisor. He apologized to his companions. “I’m afraid I have to take an important call in the White House.”
Nearby, the Secret Service, FBI, DC Police, National Park Police, and other law enforcement agencies were on high alert for global terrorists and homegrown violent extremists. The historic Riggs Bank building with its neoclassical façade stood one long block from the White House. Prior to the parade, security officers emptied the building and went through it with a fine-tooth comb. Afterwards, only well-vetted visitors were allowed to enter. Earlier that day officers confirmed that garages facing Pennsylvania Avenue were sealed, windows along the route closed, manholes and underground tunnels welded shut, and mailboxes and trashcans removed or taped closed.
A SWAT team sniper was one of several stationed on the roof of the Treasury Building across from the Riggs building. Tired and on edge, he forced himself to remain attentive for any signs of a security breach that could threaten the president or Inauguration Day visitors. Earlier that afternoon, he primed his Remington pump-action rifle for action. A medevac helicopter landed on the Riggs building rooftop terrace. Shortly afterwards, four men dressed in blue scrubs loaded a man on a gurney into the helicopter before climbing in to join him. After the helicopter took off, the agent called his supervisor. “What happened?”
“It was a medical emergency. A military aide to the national security advisor suffered a heart attack and head injury. They airlifted him to George Washington University Hospital.”
The parade was nearly over. A motorcycle drill team was performing below. From where he was stationed, he could see a final band rounding the corner at 15th street.
Loud scraping sounds captured his attention. His eyes fixated on the Rigg’s building’s classic pediment. Sections of the southwest corner tumbled outward hitting the ground with crashing thuds. Their force buckled the sidewalk and smashed decorative planters.
Ignoring the screams of injured and frightened parade watchers, he placed his full attention on the hole. Through the smoke and dust, he could barely make out the outline of a rocket launcher.
Their SWAT team weapons were no match for the military launcher. Rockets shot out over Pennsylvania Avenue accompanied by ground-shaking booms. Sections of the Riggs building’s outer walls collapsed. Debris rained on the crowded street below.
The president’s reviewing stand crumbled under the rocket attack. The president and his guests were killed instantly. Engulfed in flames, their remains fueled a fiery inferno. Thick brown smoke flattened mushroom-like over Pennsylvania Avenue.
A high school band playing a spirited rendition of John Philip Sousa’s Stars and Stripes Forever was approaching Lafayette Park when the rockets struck. As the smoke dissipated, bleeding and injured band members desperately fled the area. Terrified onlookers poured into the street, frantically fleeing the carnage. Some tripped over abandoned instruments and were trampled. In a matter of minutes, braying sirens of emergency vehicles added to the cacophony.
Deafened from the blast and bleeding from glass shards, a CNN reporter continued filming until, overcome from smoke and ash, he lapsed into unconsciousness. His video went viral. In minutes, the obliteration of Pennsylvania Ave was shared on social media. The image of a White House barely visible through smoke and flames spread throughout the world.
CHAPTER 3
Washington, DC
Crowley Fisher sat motionless, antenna up, fingers resting on his computer keyboard. The explosive booms that rocked the Washington Post building weren’t thunder. He yanked off his noise-cancelling headphones. The harsh whop whopping of sirens erased illusions of normality. Through the plexiglass of his cubicle, he saw colleagues sprinting towards exits. Audible through bedlam were fragments of anxious talk. “Mass casualties. No survivors.”
What the hell was going on?
His iPhone vibrated. The name “Chuck Wilson” flashed across his screen. The multi-billionaire Post owner had a habit of calling at inconvenient times. Allowing the call to go to voice mail, he headed out. Something big was happening. But what if….
He did an about face.
“Are you at your desk?” Wilson’s voice was loud, bitter, bordering on panic. “We just received word. Terrorists blew up the president’s reviewing stand.”
He froze, hoping against hope ….. “Tell me the parade was over.”
“It wasn’t. The president, vice president, entire cabinet – presumed dead. Hundreds, maybe thousands, injured. Some crushed while fleeing.”
But this was crazy. Surely, the Secret Service would not have allowed all the presidential successors to be in one place. “What about the Senate Majority Leader and Speaker of the House? Were they there as well?”
“Yes.”
In a matter of seconds, he was back at his computer, his fingers tapping links. Images flew across his screen. A flaming crater where the reviewing stand once stood. Twisted metal. Dead and injured loaded onto gurneys. A child’s teddy amidst the rubble. “My god,” he said. “What happened?”
“A rocket attack. Launched from the International Oil and Gas Museum on northwest corner of the Riggs building.”
“But that doesn’t make sense. It has thousands of visitors a day. How do you hide a rocket launcher?” He paused. “Unless it was an inside job.”
“The museum’s a gift from Russians. A trojan horse?”
This seemed farfetched. Russia could ill afford a counterattack from the world’s greatest military power.
“Interior Secretary Tom Paine’s the designated survivor. Has he been told he’s president? If I know him, he won’t be pleased.”
Silence. This wasn’t like Wilson. He was about to ask, “Are you still there?” when Wilson spoke, his voice heavy. “Paine’s vanished without a trace. Under Secret Service protection. Went missing while riding.”
Crowley sank into his chair. “You know what this means.”
“Yes,” said Wilson. “We’ll be without presidential leadership for the indefinite future. The nation will devolve into chaos.”
“Unless…”
“Unless what.”
“Unless we discover who’s responsible. That could lead us to Paine.”
“Or his corpse,” Wilson snapped. “Find who did this.” There was a click and a dial tone.