would hold herself together long enough to perform her task, nodded toward one of the Secret Service agents. “Clear the room except for Ms. Cosgrove, Secretary Tiarks, Dr. Turnbill, your security detail, and myself. Then see that the vice president is informed. Also, see if you can locate the chief justice and escort him here.”
Under Secret Service control, three paramedics entered, pushing a gurney. They began to work with the president, unwrapping a blood pressure cuff and feeling his neck for a pulse. “That won’t be necessary,” Dr. Turnbill said. “Please place the president on the gurney.” The three medics hesitated for a moment, uncertain of their next action. Again, Admiral Barrington spoke.
“Gentlemen, please follow Dr. Turnbill’s instructions. The president has been pronounced dead. Let’s all follow procedure here and do this with the proper degree of respect.”
The three men gently lifted President Clay Cumberland’s limp body from the chair, placing him on the gurney and covering him with a green sheet. Tears were now streaming down Marilyn Cosgrove’s face as she leaned against the wall, her well-known, unflappable, take-charge demeanor suddenly subdued.
Secretary designee Tiarks stepped close to Admiral Barrington and the senior Secret Service agent. “When the body is removed, I think we should gather in the Oval Office and meet the VP there.”
“Agreed,” Barrington said. “Shall we try to reassemble the congressional leadership? They can’t be far.”
“Yes,” Tiarks said, nodding his head, “but first we should speak with Vice President Snow. He may have a preference or some concerns that will need to be addressed before we take the next step.”
“What about the media?” Barrington asked.
“Let’s speak with Vice… uh, President Snow first,” Tiarks said, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes over the next forty-eight hours. He’s about to reap the whirlwind and he had no part in the decision. What a state of affairs. Two dead presidents in four months. For better or worse, we’ve got yet another president. God help us!”
“And God help him,” Barrington added.
Chapter 3
Dublin, Ireland
January
Carlos Hernandez Castro was dressed in slacks, pull-over golf shirt, and a dark blazer. At five feet, ten inches tall, with a muscular upper body, he looked more like a halfback than a wide receiver. His dark hair was closely cropped, a twenty-year affectation instilled by the military. He had deep-set, dark brown eyes and a swarthy complexion, compliments of years in the field and multiple generations of Spanish, Central American Indian, and the occasional European ancestor. His smile was rare, but when delivered, had been known to win a few bucks from his colleagues when put to the test against some unsuspecting female.
He descended the front steps of the American Embassy in Dublin at a hurried pace, turned west, and strode briskly down Pembroke Street toward St. Stephen's Green and a pre-arranged meeting. Once there, he stood on the northeast corner for about five minutes, during which his mind wandered over the events of the past sixty days. Major changes had recently occurred in his life. The death of President Cumberland two days ago only compounded the confusion. Carlos had already departed on this assignment, having no ability to speak with General Connor about the new development. That would have to wait for his return.
Strictly speaking, Carlos was still a Sergeant Major in the United States Marine Corps, but he was on terminal leave, pending his retirement on February 28, 2013. Officially, he was in Ireland in the capacity of his new position as Deputy Director, Office of Public Relations and Information, Department of Homeland Security. In fact, Carlos was second in charge of the president’s new terrorism task force, code name Trojan. Juggling his multiple official and unofficial roles was something he found amusing, and about as convoluted as his life story.
Entering the United States illegally over thirty years earlier with his mother and two siblings, after walking the length of Mexico from their rural village in Guatemala, Carlos had matured well beyond his age. He used this new found confidence to immediately take command of his Los Angeles barrio-at least, command of the ‘under twelve” age bracket, the training ground for prospective gang members. He stayed in charge for several years until the police began to wonder about several recently absent gang leaders and the unknown teenager who had apparently assumed control. In less than four years, everyone living in the barrio of East Los Angeles knew of the boy who had come to be called CC.
After one of his increasingly frequent incarcerations in juvenile hall, a benevolent youth gang detective saw something others had not. Seeking to kill two birds with one stone, he gave CC the hard news-he was headed for one of three places: jail, the cemetery, or the military. When the detective explained that CC could join the biggest, baddest gang in the world, the United States Marine Corps, seventeen-year-old Carlos Castro signed up.
Within two years, his peers in the Corps had joined forces to beat the crap out of him and, in the process, a different Castro had surfaced. Still tough, still seeking leadership, and still the best one-on-one street fighter he knew, Carlos was learning to work within the confines of a team. And now he had a new family, had earned his stripes as a Recon Marine, and had been recognized by his command structure-for all the right reasons-as a leader. As a Recon Marine, he was with his peers, the best of the best, despite the Navy SEALS claim to the title.
Twenty-five years later, Carlos had become an American citizen, risen to the highest attainable enlisted rank in the Corps, and earned two bronze and one silver star and a host of lesser decorations. He had also acquired an Associate’s degree in Middle Eastern Languages from the Defense Language Institute, a Bachelor’s in History and a Master’s in Economics from the University of Phoenix at various locations during his career, and most recently, a law degree from Loyola University’s evening law school. The man who had started as a young, illegal Hispanic immigrant had completed his transformation. Becoming a senior executive in the Department of Homeland Security was merely a bonus.
The most unique aspect of this transformation, Carlos thought as he waited for his Irish rendezvous, was that he was still doing the same thing: seeking out and intimidating or killing his, or his country’s, enemies. A law degree hadn’t changed that hard-won talent, but it had provided one other professional characteristic that set him apart from most of his peers: he could write a grammatically correct after-action report.
Three days earlier, in a meeting with his boss, General Padraig ‘Pug’ Connor, in their new offices in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building across the street from the White House, Pug had briefed him on the man he was to meet.
“His name is Kevin Donahue. He’s in his mid-sixties now, but don’t underestimate the man. I’ve met with him before, several years ago. He was a brigade commander in the IRA, essentially a terrorist similar to what we’re fighting now, but with a different purpose. Paradise wasn’t his goal, but a united Ireland was, and in those days, he had no qualms about placing a bomb in the public square. Those lads hadn’t agreed to be the bomb, but they certainly wreaked havoc.”
“From what I understand, they’ve been at peace for a decade, notwithstanding the claimed assassination of the vice president and prime minister last year. What does he have to offer us now?” Carlos asked.
“The main tool of intelligence: information. He just might know where to locate the elusive Jean Wolff. There’s no need for you to go armed. And you’re not a credentialed diplomat in Ireland. If they wanted to kill you, they would, but those days are, for the most part, gone. I won’t say you should trust him, but he’ll most likely tell you the truth. He’ll tell you nothing if he doesn’t want to, or doesn’t know, but he has no reason to lie. Just give him my regards and see what he brings to the table. In my message to him through our resident CIA agent at the embassy, he knows what we need. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of days for him to make contact. In the meantime, if this is your first visit to Ireland, enjoy yourself. Some great old Irish pubs throughout Dublin.”
Carlos nodded. “It’s not the type of insertion I’m used to, General, but I guess I’m in a new world.”
“Get used to it, Carlos. Your days of ‘dropping in’ through a HALO insertion are likely over.” The ‘high altitude, low opening’ parachute drop had been Carlos’s favorite part of being a Recon Marine.
“You’ve just earned a desk, like I did a few years back,” General Connor continued, “and you’ve crossed the big forty. It’s not easy to accept. You and I have to put Trojan together piece by piece and we can’t expect much help from anyone outside. The Pentagon certainly won’t like our carte blanche mandate to call on their special ops assets without even telling them how we intend to use them.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Carlos replied. “That was the primary reason I decided to retire. A sergeant major
