Panic Switch полностью

“Okay,” Pacino said. “I want the daily brief to highlight any developments. And I want weekly special sessions with me, CIA, and the State Department to go over this. Our diplomacy needs to be in front of this. And invite the Secretary of War as well. A rising unified China will be formidable.”

“Yes, sir,” Allende said.

“What’s next?”

“The Iranians, Patch. That submarine we stole this summer with the fast reactor, the Panther? The Iranians have it in a drydock. They’re fitting it out with a new compartment. We think they’re turning it into a ballistic missile submarine.”

“That’s bad news,” Pacino said, finishing his coffee and putting the mug back on the sideboard. “But that boat, according to Admiral Catardi, was loud as a garbage truck dragging chains. We’d have no problem keeping tabs on it.”

“You’re not going to like this, Mr. Vice — I mean, Patch. There are a swarm of Russian technicians there. From what we can tell, they’re tearing apart the machinery spaces for sound quieting with the latest technology. It’ll be quiet. Sorry to disappoint you.”

Pacino smirked. “Maybe we should have kept it.”

“We tried to convince the president. But he would hear none of it,” she said.

“So, what’s next on your list?”

“North Korea,” Allende said. “Guess who’s started to build an aircraft carrier?”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Pacino said. “It would take them ten years to pull that off.”

Allende shook her head. “They built modules, Patch, and assembled them inside buildings away from prying satellite eyes. They built a very large covered drydock where they’re assembling the modules. We and Defense Intelligence agree, and so does ONI, that we’re less than a year away from a North Korean super-carrier.”

The door to the room burst open and six Secret Service agents rushed in and pulled Pacino to his feet.

“Sir, please come with us to the Situation Room,” the senior man said.

“Margo, come with us,” Pacino said to Allende, and when it looked like the agents would object, Pacino glared at the senior man who waved her along with them. “What’s going on?” Pacino asked as they hustled him into the neighboring room.

“President Carlucci’s been shot, sir.”

The fund-raising luncheon for American Party Senator Michaela Everett, the chairman of the Armed Services Committee, broke up later than scheduled. Everett was under challenge from Governor Leann Meadow of the National Party, and the polls showed them in a near tie. President Carlucci’s speech in support of Everett had been legendary, or at least he thought it had been. His outpouring of support for Everett had surprised the pundits, since he and Everett had clashed several times during his term, most recently over what Everett considered an irresponsible stunt of Carlucci to hijack and steal the Iranian nuclear submarine Panther, but apparently they had had several private sessions and horse-traded, and to the outside world, were now fast friends.

Everett walked with Carlucci as the event broke up, intending to walk him to his presidential limo, nicknamed “The Beast” by the Secret Service. They took a back service entrance to the Watergate Hotel, surrounded by Carlucci’s Secret Service agents, and despite trying to keep their exit point a secret, the press and political supporters lined the sidewalks. The D.C. police had set up a barricade, but it was barely a car length on the other side of The Beast.

As Carlucci emerged into the September sunshine, the crowd erupted in applause and shouts of greeting. Carlucci smiled his brilliant politician’s smile and lifted his arm high over his head to wave at the crowd. It was then the gunshots rang out from Carlucci’s right, and two Secret Service agents tackled the president and threw him into the open doorway of The Beast while two other agents targeted the shooter and fired into his chest. The assassin was dead before he hit the concrete of the sidewalk and by then, The Beast was accelerating toward George Washington University Hospital.

The agents placed Carlucci carefully up on the bench seat, examining him to see how badly he was hit.

“How bad is it?” Carlucci asked.

“Mr. President, you’re shot twice, both chest shots,” the agent said. “Stay with us.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t think of going anywhere,” Carlucci said, trying to smile.

The Beast screeched to a halt at the emergency portico of the hospital, sirens wailing and beacons flashing from the escort motorcycles and police cars. A gurney waited for him and the doctors and nurses quickly pulled Carlucci out of the limo and onto the gurney. Once in the elevator, an ER nurse initiated an intravenous feed, puncturing the flesh of his right hand and hanging the bottle on a post above the president’s body. The nurse looked at him with deep concern.

“We’re taking you to surgery now, sir,” she said. The elevator rose on the ride to the surgical suite. When the doors opened, Carlucci found himself in the outer chamber of the operating room, surrounded by doctors.