Arnie van Damm briefed Vice President Mark Dehart as they walked, giving him everything he knew before they even made it to the tunnels that connected the Eisenhower Executive Office Building to the White House and the underground Presidential Emergency Operations Center.
Unfortunately, everything he knew did not amount to much.
“The situation is unfolding rapidly,” the CoS said. “I was already in the EEOB, on the cell phone with my counterpart in Botero’s office. There was an explosion . . . and then gunfire . . .” Van Damm slowed, getting choked up. “I could hear brass hitting the ground, then the line went dead.” He shook it off and picked up the pace.
Dehart glanced sideways at Special Agent Keenan Mulvaney as they walked. “And your people on the ground?”
“Our radios have apparently been compromised. Cell signals are being jammed. The first report of an explosion came in at 12:09 local.”
Dehart checked his watch. “That’s six minutes ago.”
Deputy National Security Adviser Robby Forrestal met them in the tunnel halfway between the EEOB and the PEOC. Tablet computer in hand, the Navy commander turned to match the vice president’s stride, filling him in on the latest.
“The President is still unaccounted for, and the Secret Service is still under fire,” Forrestal said.
“And the local police are just standing by?”
“They appear to be the ones shooting at the Secret Service. We believe Botero has been killed. It appears President Ryan has walked into a coup.”
“Son of a bitch!” Mulvaney slammed a fist into his open palm as he walked. He apologized immediately.
“You’re right,” Dehart said. “This is a shitshow.” He rolled his hand at Forrestal bidding him to continue.
“I understand there are Russian warships in the area.”
Forrestal filled him in on the two ships in the canal.
“They left Panama Bay this morning, heading north,” he said. “But they are now stopped near Gamboa at the entrance to the lake.”
“Stopped.” Dehart nodded, taking that in. “Do they have aircraft?”
“Four attack helicopters at most between them,” Forrestal said. “The Ivan Gren would normally carry at least a company of Russian Naval Infantry. We’re not sure at present.”
“What assets do we have near Panama?” Dehart asked.
“On the Caribbean side,” the commander said, “the Fourth Fleet is conducting naval exercises south of Jamaica. The Gettysburg, Farragut, and the Boone—a guided-missile cruiser, destroyer, and a frigate. The LHD Wasp is a little farther north with two companies of Marines. On the Pacific side, the Abraham Lincoln carrier strike group is abeam the southern tip of the Baja Peninsula.”
“Damn it!” Dehart spat. “I thought we were having them loiter closer than that.”
Forrestal looked at his tablet. He held up a finger, asking permission to read something coming in in real time.
“Sir,” he said. “The Russian destroyer appears to be turning around.”
“In the canal?”
“Yes, sir,” Forrestal said.
“Can they do that?”
“They’ve already done it,” Forrestal said. “They’re in the Cut, heading toward Panama City.”
“Arnie,” Dehart said. “Let’s get the president of the Russian Federation on the line as soon as we reach the PEOC.” He shook his head, overcome with the urge to punch something. Someone. “If Russia is involved in this, it’s an act of war.”
“Mr. Vice President,” Commander Forrestal said, “the U.S. Coast Guard national security cutter Munro is right there.”
“Right where?” Dehart asked, sounding unconvinced.
“At the Port of Balboa . . . the southern opening of the canal, in a perfect position to greet the Russians.”