Seconds after the president was shot, Secretary of Defense Harold Murphy was also severely wounded.”
He paused, looked down as if he could not believe what he was about to say, and then raised his head up and went on in a commanding voice. “Under the Twentieth and Twenty-Fifth Amendments of the U.S. Constitution and by the Succession Act of 1947, with the president incapacitated and the office of vice president vacant, power passes to the Speaker of the House, and if that office is vacant, to the Senate president pro tempore, and if that office is vacant, to the secretary of state. If that office is vacant, the secretary of the treasury assumes power. If that office is vacant, the secretary of defense is president.”
Larkin swallowed hard then firmed the set of his jaw. “It is my miserable task to inform the nation that West Virginia senator Arthur Jones, the Senate president pro tempore, died of a heart attack at GW Medical Center earlier this morning.”
He held up his hands, shouted, “Let me speak!”
The rabble quieted.
Larkin said, “I must also inform the nation that about an hour ago, at a quail-hunting ranch in West Texas, Speaker of the House Matthew Guilford and Secretary of State Aaron Deeds were assassinated by long-range snipers. We’ve only just gotten word.”
Gasps went up from a shocked press corps.
“It’s a coup,” I said in shock and awe. “A coup attempt in the United …”
“What does this mean?” a reporter shouted. “So who takes office?”
The attorney general said, “Under the order of succession, with the secretary of defense incapacitated, I do.”
More shouting. “You’re assuming the office of presidency?”
“I am,” Larkin said. “I did not seek this role, but our nation is under attack. Make no mistake, our country, our Constitution, our way of life, it’s all under attack, and because of that I will take the oath of office as acting president, working closely with General Hayes and FBI director Sanford in defense of our country.”
Before the reporters could yell anything, Larkin said, “To that end, after my swearing-in, I will sign executive orders giving full authority to Mr. Sanford and the FBI to implement the U.S. Justice Department’s assassination-contingency plans and to lead the investigation to uncover who was behind this coordinated attack on our democracy. I will also sign orders instituting a state of martial law in the United States of America for the next one hundred hours.”
“What?” I said. “Holy … has that ever happened?”
“Nothing like this has ever happened,” Nana said.
Larkin ignored the reporters freaking out in the White House press room and left.
Chairman of the Joint Chiefs General Hayes went to the microphone.
“All travel in U.S. airspace is suspended for the duration of martial law. All planes currently in the air out of New York, Washington, and Texas are being ordered to the ground and impounded. All other flights in the air will proceed to their destinations.
“All public-transit systems will halt. Drive if you have to, but know that your vehicle, especially in and around the District of Columbia, is subject to search. We will find whoever is behind these assassinations, and we will find them—”
I heard the doorbell before the front door opened and I went to the hall to see Mahoney rushing toward me. “Let’s go, Alex,” he said. “We’ve got work to do.”
CHAPTER
59
SITTING IN THE Suburban in the driving rain, snarled in traffic trying to get on the Brooklyn Bridge leaving Manhattan, Martin Franks was listening to 1010 WINS all-news radio about the attacks.
Franks swallowed hard against the searing pain in his upper right arm. Waiting for the narcotics to kick in, he checked the belt he’d placed as a tourniquet just below his shoulder and just above the gaping wound.
The treasury secretary’s bodyguard’s second shot had blown through Franks’s upper right shoulder, shattering the humerus bone and destroying nerves. Years of training was the only thing that kept Franks from blacking out in agony.
At the first stoplight south of the church, the assassin had looked in the rearview, saw no flashing lights, and dug with his left hand in his pockets for the two things he always carried into battle: commercially made foil packages that contained bandages treated with clotting agents and antibiotics and a small envelope containing forty OxyContin pills.
Franks shook six pills into his mouth and chewed them as he tore open his shirt. Swallowing the pills, he used his teeth to rip one clotting bandage free of the foil.
He slid it in under his