By noon that day, the remnants of no fewer than one hundred and sixteen drones had been recovered. The exact number was imprecise since some of the aircraft had been shredded by Marine’s One’s massive rotors and engines. Fragments were found on the banks of the river and in the nearby park, and hundreds of bits and pieces had been fished out of the murky water by divers. Some of the debris collected was barely identifiable, and investigators separated what was clearly random trash: pens, condoms, hubcaps, and at least two wedding rings.
Fortunately, many of the drones had fallen to earth intact, including the strap-and-claw attachments that had proved so devastating. Those drones that missed their target had simply hovered in place until their batteries discharged, at which point they plummeted to the ground.
The wreckage of Marine One was hauled from the river by a massive barge-mounted crane—a hideously tactless operation given that the shores were lined with news crews—and transported to a shoreside hangar at nearby Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling. For the rest of the day, inglorious images of the bent and battered VH-92 sitting crookedly on a barge, water draining from every orifice, became a ceaseless backdrop on cable newscasts and social media feeds.
The FBI took the lead in the investigation, and within hours they confirmed that the construction trailer had indeed served as the launch point for the drones. After determining that the booby trap on the rear doors was a ruse, an army of evidence technicians combed the interior. They found precious little: a battery charging system for the drones, two flashlights, one work light, a few cable ties, a makeshift table made of bricks and lumber, and three discarded food wrappers. Investigators scoured the interior for fingerprints and DNA, impounded all camera footage from the construction site, and questioned every worker and nearby resident they could track down.
Every shred of new information was immediately sent up the chain of command.
And that was where the dysfunction began.
“Like hell you will!” Ed Markowitz shouted across the table in the White House conference room.
Matt Gross, the acting president’s chief of staff, shot back, “You no longer call the shots, Ed. First March Madness, now this. Our intelligence agencies have failed us. And after what happened to Elayne last night, I’d think you of all people would demand some accountability!”
“Enough!” barked the vice president, his hands spreading like a boxing referee trying to separate fighters. “They can hear you two shouting all the way to Capitol Hill.”
Both men sank grudgingly back into their chairs.
Markowitz was fuming. He and Gross had gotten sideways before, but the shift of power had thrown rocket fuel on the fire. Markowitz looked around the room and saw little support—every set of eyes was either fixed on Vice President Quarrels or locked in a thousand-yard stare. At the table were Director of National Intelligence John Nichols, Secretary of State Robert Shawcross, and JCS Chairman General Lou Morris. Quarrels—or more likely Gross—had intentionally kept the morning meeting small, probably thinking it would facilitate a smooth transition of power. With ten minutes gone, it was nothing less than a donnybrook.
The dysfunction was already bleeding into the news. Conflicting press releases had been issued late last night—Markowitz sending one through president Cleveland’s usual channels, Quarrels issuing his own. A few minor differences between them were all it took to send the media into a frenzy. In truth, they had a point. America’s leadership was shattered, disorganized. Quarrels had been declared “acting president,” yet what that meant, what it empowered, had never really been tested. The vagueness regarding Elayne Cleveland’s condition only made things worse.
Quarrels, clearly aiming to be the sage voice of reason, hit the reset button. “Gentlemen, now is not the time for division. We have got to look forward. So … what’s the latest on who’s responsible for this attack?”
DNI Nichols took his cue. “We’re taking a hard look at the drones. So far, we’ve recovered over a hundred of them, and we’re still pulling more from the river. The kill mechanism was pretty basic—each drone carried a high-strength strap with a claw attachment. Apparently the drones arranged themselves in a vertical wall, creating a virtual net that inflicted critical damage to the two choppers that made contact.”
“That doesn’t sound very sophisticated,” Quarrels commented. He was holding an official White House coffee mug, the presidential seal evident to all.
“On the face of it, no. But our analysts are digging into the circuitry of these devices, and what they’ve identified so far looks pretty advanced. The drones communicated with one another via some kind of AI software. On top of that, we were jamming the bandwidths used to control most commercially available drones—it’s a standard procedure for presidential movement. The fact that it didn’t work tells us they were using a different part of the RF spectrum. We also suspect that each unit had an acoustic sensor, and with all of them linked together it effectively formed an array antenna. We’ve called DARPA in to have a look, but the bottom line—this was not something slapped together in Al-Qaeda’s basement.”
“What about Russia’s?” the vice president asked. Quarrels was a lifelong Russia hawk, and the invasion of Ukraine had only hardened his outlook.
“Russia, China, Iran. At this point, we can’t say exactly where this technology came from.”
Gross said, “I think we’ve got a bigger problem than figuring out who built these drones. It seems to me someone had foreknowledge of the president’s movements. Who could get that kind of intelligence? Does it imply we have a leak?”
“It’s a fair question,” Quarrels seconded. “The president’s schedule is closely held.”
“Not as close as you’d think,” Nichols replied. “Portions of her schedule are readily available, and yesterday was a good example. There was widespread media coverage of her trip to the Midwest. She also had a public event scheduled the next morning here in Washington, a medal of honor ceremony. Someone could easily have noted Air Force One’s departure from Des Moines, which there’s no way to hide, and combined that with the event scheduled for the next day … her return to Andrews was predictable.”
Markowitz took it further. “Figure the average speed of an airliner, and anyone could have estimated her arrival back at Andrews. At least, plus or minus fifteen minutes.”
“Another weak point in our security,” said Gross.
“Probably,” Nichols agreed. “But that doesn’t answer the more vexing question: how did they track the president’s helicopter? As you all know, Marine One flies varied routes between Andrews and the White House. They’re highly randomized with no preplanning, and the pilots are authorized to change routes at will. Then there’s the matter of the decoy helicopters—three were used last night. From the video we’ve seen, this veil of drones wasn’t wide enough to take out all of them. The second helicopter that took damage was flying very close to Marine One—so close that it was likely only collateral damage. Somehow, these attackers knew not only which route was being taken, but which aircraft was carrying the president.”
“How could that be?” Markowitz asked.
“We can’t say for certain, but there are some clues. To begin, there are a limited number of flight paths between Andrews and the White House—six have been charted and vetted thoroughly, designed to minimize just this kind of threat.”
“Could the attackers have known this?”
“It seems likely. The routes are closely held, but anyone who watched long enough could figure it out—Marine One makes the trip multiple times each week. Regarding this attack, we’ve identified a trailer at a construction site where the drones were concealed. It’s been there for at least a month, so it’s conceivable the attackers have been as well, waiting for the right chance.”
“But that doesn’t explain how they knew which helicopter to target,” Gross said.
“And it doesn’t tell us who’s behind it,” Quarrels added.
General Morris said, “In light of what we’ve seen in recent months, I think The Trident, whoever they are, has to top our suspect list.”
Gross said, “Unfortunately, our intelligence agencies still have no idea who they are. This could be Russia or China playing games through some shadow group. Or a false flag operation from a third party trying to stir up trouble. Whoever’s behind it, they’re feeling confident enough to go after the president. Since this is clearly an external threat, CIA should be the one getting answers. It’s a failure of the first order that they’ve been shooting blanks for months.”
Markowitz sat helplessly, increasingly adrift. He could feel his influence, or more precisely Elayne Cleveland’s, fading by the second. The vice president and his COS had been advocating for change at CIA for over a month, but Elayne Cleveland had pushed back.
He said, “Mr. Vice President, it’s true that CIA was caught out in March. I won’t argue otherwise. But getting accurate, timely answers will require all our agencies working in concert. The last thing we need do is start slashing and burning in the middle of a complex investigation.”
“No,” Gross said, a terrier not letting go. “Thomas Coltrane at CIA has to go.”
“John?” said the vice president, his eyes shifting to DNI Nichols.
Nichols hesitated, then nodded slowly. The vice president visually polled the others. The secretary of state and JCS chairman agreed. Markowitz had already voted.
A tipping point had been reached.
Quarrels cleared his throat once, a prelude to an edict. “Then it’s settled. I’m going to replace Thomas Coltrane, effective immediately.”
“Who will take his place?” Markowitz asked.
“I have a successor in mind, someone already at the agency. That will minimize any disruption, and hopefully get Senate confirmation fast-tracked.”
“Who?”
“Charles Eraclides,” Gross replied.
Eyebrows raised all around, but only Markowitz put it to words. “Eraclides? He’s the agency’s inspector general, a lawyer with no operational background. Why not—”
“Ed!” the vice president interrupted forcefully. “I am going to stop you there. We don’t have time to spin our wheels. None of us knows if Elayne is going to wake up, or whether she’ll be able to resume her duties if she does. It could be weeks or even months. I pray the president will have a full and speedy recovery, but until that time, I am running the show. This attack bears distinct similarities to those we suffered two months ago. It’s time for a new course, and Charles Eraclides has been at the agency for over twenty years. I’d argue he is well versed in all aspects of the agency’s mission.”
The vice president’s gaze shifted to include the others. “We will find out who’s responsible for this attack. When we do, I want options for a response—everything from full scale deployments to SAC/SOG direct action. Questions?”
There were none.
“All right, then. Get to work.”
Everyone stood as Quarrels got up to leave.
Minutes later, the vice president entered the Oval Office with only his chief of staff trailing him. When Gross closed the doors behind them, Quarrels said, “I’m concerned about this attack. Clearly whoever is responsible did their homework. Even so, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to it.”
“In what way?” asked Gross.
“The attackers knew Marine One’s routes. And they knew which one was carrying the president.”
Gross seemed to study the royal blue carpet, before saying, “There has to be a leak.”
“I can’t see it any other way.”
The younger man weighed it. “Then we’ll find it. But that won’t be easy. A lot of agencies have a hand in presidential security. The Secret Service and Capitol Police. The Marine Corps and Air Force.”
“I know it’s a wide net, but we have to make an effort.”
“If there is a leak, it could be at any level. We have to move carefully.”
“I disagree. We can’t afford to tiptoe around when our nation is under attack. I want you to get with Eraclides, impress on him the importance of finding out who’s responsible. If it turns out to be The Trident, we will identify the individuals controlling it and initiate a response.”
“What kind of response?”
“The only kind that fits.”