FOUR

Catoctin Mountain—Maryland

A BRISK PACE.

That had been his campaign motto. It was catchy, to the point, and reflected the kind of lifestyle led by Tom Duncan, the president of the United States. Not only was he a proponent of whirlwind reform on everything from abortion to taxes, but in his foreign policy as well. Some called the ex–Army Ranger and Desert Storm veteran ruthless, and at times he was, but he preferred the term “efficient,” like a surgeon cutting away the world’s cancer. In the three years he’d been president, he’d put massive dents in three terror organizations including Hamas and Hezbollah, which brought the opportunity for establishing peace in the Middle East. But his tactics and in-your-face brute force policy brought criticism from several world leaders who feared the president’s “efficiency” might turn in their direction. But when push came to shove, no one denied that the world was a safer place with Duncan in the Oval Office.

And his pace never slowed, not even while jogging, which his security team knew all too well.

Duncan checked his pulse and then the time on his wristwatch. He was thirty seconds faster than his best time and felt far from tired, though his army green T-shirt was soaked through with sweat. He could hear the heavy breathing of the two Secret Service men following behind him as they struggled to keep up with the most physically fit president the United States had ever known. He didn’t drink, never smoked, and ate less sugar than a diabetic. And his good looks reflected his health. His short cropped brown hair, though balding slightly, when combined with his wry smile, drew swoons from the female press corps and graced the covers of very un-presidential magazines. It was theorized that his good looks had helped win the female vote and squelch the notion that a single man could never win the presidency. He was a modern American hero in his prime and a shoo-in for the next election.

But these things were far from his mind on this summer day. The scenery of the wooded trail that wrapped its way around Camp David had been a favorite walk of Roosevelt, Bush Jr., and occasionally Clinton, but not one of them charged through the scenery like a man on a mission. And all the while he was enjoying the view. The foliage was lush and the woods smelled of wet earth and decaying leaves. The atmosphere was slightly humid, but here in the mountains, eighteen hundred feet above sea level, the air was crisp compared to the near-tropical moisture of Washington, D.C.

This was the second day of his visit to Camp David and he would remain here for two more weeks, entertaining staff and heads of state, and at the end of the two weeks, putting the finishing touches on the peace accord to be presented to Palestine and Israel. But for the next three days he was here to relax. And he was determined to do just that, clear his mind, maybe even read a book. He’d heard Ice Station by Matthew Reilly was a good read and was looking forward to an action-packed story that would remind him of his time as a U.S. Army Ranger.

With that, his thoughts turned to some good news. Upon taking office, he had coordinated with the military to strike terrorism down hard. But he didn’t want to attack with a blunt weapon. Countries wouldn’t be invaded. Innocents wouldn’t be killed. And they would never make front-page news. Instead, he wanted to oversee teams of surgeons who would carefully remove terrorist organizations like cancerous cells from the body . . . with brutal efficiency.

To this point, only the Chess Team excelled. And they had won another silent victory the previous day. The world believed a band of pirates had attacked yet another cargo ship and that the pirates responsible had died at the hands of a Chinese destroyer. For this reason, he looked forward to meeting Jack Sigler and his Chess Team, though Deep Blue would not be making the engagement, which would surprise no one. His success required that his identity remain veiled.

Deep Blue or not, Duncan felt it was high time the Delta team that had helped his presidency flourish be rewarded, though that too could never be disclosed. The funny thing was, King didn’t want a medal. No one on the team did. Said they didn’t believe in them. All they wanted was a barbeque . . . so a barbeque it was. And Duncan was determined to make it the best damn barbeque the Chess Team ever enjoyed. He wasn’t bringing in top chefs or having a catering company come. He was doing one better. He’d had a new professional Lynx grill installed, ordered the freshest prime cuts to be delivered that afternoon, stocked up on the team’s preferred brew—Sam Adams—and was flying in the best stick-to-your-ribs barbeque master he knew: his brother Greg.

When he thought about the good food and relaxing time he’d have with King and crew, who served the country so well, he smiled and lay back. He was looking forward to his time with them and hearing about their exploits from a first-hand perspective.

Rounding a bend in the path, he took note of the brilliant lime green leaves clinging to the maple trees that lined the trail. Between the leaves he could see the azure sky and beaming sun, which set the leaves aglow. The only smudge in this otherwise pristine day, which was the beginning of what would be a very good week, was something conjured up by his imagination the night before. He’d dreamed of being chased through the jungle—not chased, hunted. He watched from above as his child self ran from pursuing shadows that shrieked and wailed. Then he was the boy, panting, terrified, running as though submerged in mud. Before waking with a scream that brought armed Secret Service agents rushing into the room, he saw a flash of yellow teeth shoot toward his face.

He’d never experienced a night terror before, but knew that dream had to be close. He woke, covered in sweat and all scratched up, presumably from where he’d scraped himself with his nails while struggling to fight off his imagined assailants. He’d seen a doctor shortly after who attributed the nightmare to the president’s ensuing downtime. The doctor knew Duncan was a workaholic and thought the idea of relaxing was actually stressing the president.

While Duncan didn’t buy the “fear of downtime” theory, he couldn’t think of a better reason for the nightmare, either. Of course, he had watched James Cameron’s Aliens a few nights back in the White House theater. That seemed as likely a candidate as any physical or psychological ailment. But he was happy to forget the nightmare altogether. And the scenery was helping him do just that. It was a beautiful day, after all. A perfect day. He took it as a good omen.

Then a pain racked his chest. He stumbled and stopped, suddenly dizzy. He checked his pulse . . . and found nothing.

His heart had stopped.

As he fell to the ground, wondering how someone had been able to poison him, he heard the two Secret Service men calling out orders. But as bright spots danced before a black curtain in his vision, he knew there was nothing they could do. He never felt the pain of his head hitting the earth.

President Duncan was dead.