Insurrection

By John Angus

A coup d'état in the United States is simply not possible.

The country wouldn't stand for it. The military wouldn't stand for it.

Of course, if they didn't know about it...

Logan Black thought she wanted to be an FBI agent, until she became one. But as a friend of the First Family, she gets seconded to the White House as the President's personal information gofer. A California girl who loathes the Washington weather, Logan consoles herself with the hacker's delight of passwords for every major computer system in the country. One day she comes across something she at first takes to be coordinated information leaks from the military.

And then people start dying.

Logan is better at interrogating computers than people, and faster with a keyboard than a gun. But a strong sense of self preservation keeps her alive just as a shocking day of coordinated violence hits Washington. But instead of arresting the plotters, Logan is accused of being one, with every federal, state and police agency in the country is after her. If Logan can't find out who is behind it all, and stay alive long enough to get the information out, the first coup de etate in American history will put a murderous fanatic in the White House.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Angus
• Release date: Mar 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781311935304

Book preview

Insurrection

By John Angus

Copyright 2010

Electronic Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Chapter One

Logan didn't know who the naked man was she was kissing.

She was naked, as well, in a dark, unfamiliar room, pressed back against a low mirror-topped dresser. She felt his hands slide down to squeeze her ass before lifting her up onto the dresser. Something fell over the side, clattering on the hardwood floor, but she ignored it. Her arms were around him, her breath becoming ragged as she felt the heat of his skin against her own. His hands were moving hungrily, even greedily over her body, and her skin sizzled where he touched. She felt the cold glass of the mirror against her bare back. Then he pulled her legs up and apart and she slid down the glass.

A strange moment of semi-clarity cut through the alcoholic fog surrounding her, and even as her tongue and his slid liquidly across each other inside his mouth she realized she had no idea who he was. It wasn't just that she had forgotten his name; something which had happened a few times of late, but that she did not even recognize the half closed eyes inches away from her own, and could not remember where she had met him.

He pulled back, leaving her slightly dazed, and bent to mouth one of her nipples. She heard herself sigh in pleasure, even as she looked down and saw a small bald-spot amidst the otherwise thick dark hair atop his head. He straightened, and she had a better view of him now. He was probably mid forties, his dark hair short and curly against a narrow skull. He had bushy eyebrows she thought she surely should have recognized, slightly glassy brown eyes, and a narrow, aristocratic nose to go with a dimpled chin. He was a handsome man, just a little too young to be termed distinguished, and just a little too old, well, maybe more than a little, for her to be dating.

But she had no idea who he was.

His lips crushed hers as his body pushed her back and down, and she slid lower, her head forced forward now as she slumped to almost lay atop the too-narrow dresser. Her legs were around him and their tongues met once again as he entered her.

She wondered who he was. But only briefly. He loomed over her, blocking out the small amount of moonlight entering a half curtained window. Then the haze closed in and she rocked against him, feeling the passion take hold.

* * * * * *

Logan woke slowly, her head throbbing, body sore, her mouth dry and stomach bubbling threateningly. She sensed a presence beside her and turned to see a male back, broad, hairy, and not very attractive in her present mood. She raised her wrist and blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the soft glow of the dial. It was... after six. She had fallen asleep again.

Another moment of lucidity swept over her and she sat up slowly. She did not like waking in strange men's beds. It was awkward, embarrassing, and made her feel more than a little dirty. She swung her legs slowly out of bed and got shakily to her feet, swaying slightly. She hadn't slept long enough to sober up completely, just enough for the leading edge of what she was sure would be a stupendous hangover to make its presence felt.

She stood, swaying in place for a full minute while her slightly dazed mind tried to puzzle out why she was standing to begin with. Then, naked, she stumbled out of the room and up the little hall to the living room to sit down heavily on a black leather sofa. There she bent to rest her head in her hands for a long minute.

She inhaled deeply, exhaled, and raised her head, looking around the room.

It was clearly a man's room, a young man's room, or one who wanted to pretend he was, with dark leather furniture and stylish glass and chrome tables. Enormous steel framed pictures faced each other on two walls, multicolored modern art, lurid swirls of light beneath the glass.

She spotted her skirt easily enough, then her top. Her underwear was on the floor, and her shoes were visible through the glass top of the coffee table.

She sat for a moment, then picked up the phone, calling a taxi. Modern technology being what it was, the dispatcher answered with a request for her phone number rather than an address – for which she was grateful. She read it off the face plate and he read out her address. She agreed, having no better idea where she was.

She glanced at the bedroom, then considered sitting back and resting for a few minutes before rejecting it. She'd fall asleep again if she did. She left the apartment door unlocked behind her and summoned an elevator. The inside walls were cruelly mirrored and she looked at herself for a long and distasteful moment before pulling her eyes away.

An epiphany hit her.

I have to stop this shit, she whispered to herself.

She had thirty-three years behind her, in a job where she worked alone, in a city where she knew almost no one, a continent away from her family.

She allowed herself to wallow in that for long moments, a self-pitying defense against the voice of reason.

She deserved to party, to go out and meet people, to have fun, to experience life. She didn't have much time for it either, and that meant advertising she was looking for company. Her top was thin and tight, almost molded to her breasts and exposing every inch of skin from just below them to the top of the very short, low-slung skirt clinging to her hips. The skirt was almost completely open on the right hip, exposing an immodest amount of thigh, which, accompanied by her long legs rarely failed to draw male friends to her almost as soon a she walked into a bar or club.

She'd worn far less to the beach, she thought defensively. In the good old days.

Then the bell startled her and she stumbled a half step before catching her balance, straightening her shoulders, and walking almost normally out through the opening doors and into the lobby.

The cabby's eyes drank her in as he pulled up before the door, and she felt a momentary embarrassment, as if her clothes weren't meant for civilians to see, but only the denizens of dark, noisy nightclubs and bars where people understood each other.

She pulled open the rear door and half fell inside.

Where too, baby? the man asked, his middle-east face leering at her over a skinny shoulder.

She blanked for a long moment before remembering her address. He held the leer for a moment, then turned and started forward.

Half an hour later she stood under a shower, alone. The water was cold, and she was chilled, arms folded across her chest, head low, eyes half closed, shivering slightly. Every time she moved, however slightly, the cold water found a new path to trickle down her skin and she shivered anew.

She considered - again - calling in sick. Much of her work could be done from her home computer anyway. And it wasn't like anyone would really notice she wasn't at work. They would know, however. The ones who mattered.

She brushed and dried her hair, finished a second coffee, and dressed in loose white cargo pants and a Redskins jersey. She had that luxury, at least. There were no dress codes in the isolated computer labs of the basement.

Not even the basement of the White House.

She caught a cab to the White House, almost falling asleep as she lay her head back against the too-hard rear headrest. As they grew closer she saw the driver darting his eyes to the rear view mirror, looking at her nervously.

You sure you can go here, lady? he asked, looking at her jersey suspiciously.

She nodded without speaking.

You don't look like you work in the White House.

I'm the President's mistress, she said.

He snorted doubtfully.

He turned onto State Place, slowing to a crawl as they pulled in behind a black New Yorker at the appointment gate blocking West Executive Drive. The New Yorker accelerated and she tugged her ID from her purse, rolling down the window as the uniformed Secret Service guard motioned them forward.

She held out her ID, and he examined it closely, then stared at her face.

Would you remove the glasses, please, Ma'am?

She sighed and slipped them off, blinking in the bright morning sunlight behind him.

Okay, Ma'am.

He handed back her ID and waved them forward.

Where I go? the driver asked nervously.

The gate up the street.

I turn in there? he asked hopefully.

Just stop.

The cab stopped before the West Gate and she got out with a grunt, holding her ID as she moved towards the Secret Service guard. Like the first man he examined her ID closely, and then her face before handing it back and motioning her through the small pedestrian gate. She trudged up the walk towards the West Wing wondering if she'd be able to leave early and catch the after work regulars at Zaphods.

Joining a small line of employees, all cleanly and carefully dressed in business suits and tailored dresses, she showed her pass a third time to the guard at the door and passed through the discreet metal detector. The air inside was cool and dry, and as it flowed around her she felt the headache which had begun to form easing off.

She took the stairs to the basement, trying not to slouch until she was past the cafeteria and its crowd of coffee and bun addicts.

I am definitely getting old, she thought gloomily. Soon I'll be an old woman who has to be in bed by ten. There was a time, of course, when she'd thought thirty was old.

The basement was much quieter now, the doors and frames old fashioned and layered with decades of brown paint. Away from the chrome and glass of the cafeteria the smell turned musty and old.

A corridor no more than three feet wide turned off the hall, small doors set into the old stone on either side. It made a sharp bend and ended abruptly. There was a single door here. Paint chips flaked off it, and the frosted glass window had a hairline crack. The only thing which set it apart from the rest running up the little hall was the electronic lock next to it.

She slipped her card into it and a small red light blinked out as the door clicked faintly. She went through and closed it behind her, locking it without thinking.

The room was claustrophobic. It had been used for storage, and there were no windows. A modern U-shaped work center ran along three walls, essentially filling the room. Cupboards and shelves rose above it all the way around. There were three computers set on the counter, along with a wide variety of peripheral equipment. Half a dozen monitors occupied the shelves in one section, above several stacked servers.

The center of the work station held an especially large monitor, a keyboard before it. A high-backed swivel chair was pulled back, and Logan dropped heavily into it, closing her eyes and rubbing her face with her hands. She scratched her head and reached forward, pulling herself up in the chair to flick on the computer. She swiveled along the counter, turning on more computers, printers, the scanner, modems, and, most importantly, the coffee maker. Then she rolled back to the main screen and picked up one of the phones to her left, pressing an autodial button.

B-55 in, she said tiredly. Two one seven nine eight four.

She hung up and reached above her, taking down an old white mug. The words Grand Ole Opry had faded across the side, but were still legible.

The chair rolled back and swiveled, and she bent, opening a small fridge beneath one section of the work station. She plucked a small creamer from a tray, gazed in irritation at the vast emptiness of the shelf which should have held her Cokes, then closed the door and rolled her chair back before the large monitor. She untied her tennis shoes and tossed them into the corner, then stepped into her slippers.

The computer was bringing up a list of this morning's news with anything which met the criteria she'd set. Meanwhile she shifted rapidly through her email, most of which was of little or no interest. She yawned hugely and deleted one after the other, then exited and rolled to a second computer. There she brought up a chart, then searched through a foot high pile of printouts and charts on the counter before cursing and rolling to another section of the counter.

She reached up and turned on the small stereo, switching stations several times before taking a small USB drive out of a drawer and slipping it into an open port.

The chair rolled and swiveled as music filled the room, one of the relaxation albums designed for mornings like this, when high pitched voices and thumping drums were not welcome. She typed rapidly at another of the computers, watched the results of her work flow up the screen, typed again, then pursed her lips. Above the monitor a green light woke on a small laser printer. A second green light began to blink, and the machine whirred softly. A paper slid out of a slot at the base, and she reached up to the top of the monitor, catching it before it fell.

Her eyes scanned it slowly before she set it down on the pile. She turned and the chair rolled back to the large monitor, which now had two columns of figures running down its screen. She made a face as she read them.

The phone rang. The phone, the warble distinctive.

She looked longingly towards the coffee maker, told herself it was a good thing she'd come in after all, then shook her head in resignation.

The chair rolled and swiveled and her hand lifted the receiver on the second ring.

Yes, sir?

Hello, Logan. How are things down there?

Fine, Mr. Anderson. I'm almost done with the information you wanted.

Good. Good. It'll be put to good use. But I have another job for you. You've seen this morning's Post?

Not yet, sir.

There's a story there about readiness reports of various Army divisions. The information was leaked from the Pentagon.

Logan sighed inwardly.

Mr. Anderson, finding and plugging a leak in the Pentagon is like bailing out a boat with no bottom.

I'm aware of that, he said with a throaty chuckle. But there have been a series of leaks like this over the past month or two, all with the same theme, that our military is falling apart. Chad seems to think they're related, that they're being directed by someone.

Chad is an idiot, Mr. Anderson. I've told you that before.

There was a pause, then a another chuckle.

And I keep telling you you're wrong. He might act like an idiot at times, but he actually is quite bright. More importantly he has great political instincts, and like you, I can rely on his absolute loyalty and honesty.

Yes, sir. She closed her eyes, slumping back and letting the chair recline.

Either these leaks are coming from pissed off junior officers all over the Army or they're being directed by someone very high up. If it's the latter I want to know who.

I'll do my best, sir, but you know - .

I know. I don't ask the impossible. Do what you can. But I want this given priority.

What about the lobbyists?

Finish that, by all means. I want to know who's paying who in the Senate and Congress. Makes it easier to know how big a bribe I need to offer for their votes. But get on this as quick as you can.

Yes, sir, she said.

She dropped the phone back onto its hook and patted her forehead, pushing back the stray wisps of pale blonde hair which had escaped the elastic around her pony tail. She gave up quickly, however, removing the elastic, letting her hair spill down to her shoulders, then combing and folding it back once again.

All of which was more an exercise in procrastination than hair care.

She put her hand on the mouse next to the nearest monitor, moving, clicking, moving and clicking again. The computer reached out through the phone lines and brought up the Post, then the story Anderson had referred to. She noted the reporter's name, and the names of the units involved before sending the story to a large laser printer in a corner.

The mouse moved again, and her fingers clicked and clicked. A search program roused itself, and she typed rapidly before she rolled away to check the laser's printout and get her coffee.

She returned to the larger monitor, sipping her coffee and wondering again if she had made an enormous mistake in accepting Anderson's appeal to work for him at the White House. Being the President's personal gofer for information had sounded good at the time. Bureaucrats from every agency, from HHS to CIA, massaged information to hide embarrassing secrets from the Administration. Someone the President could trust would be a big help in prying the truth out from behind all those locked doors and hidden files.

Unfortunately, she all too often found herself working on political information, such as the current chart of lobbyists and the Senators and Congressmen they owned. It wasn't work she found either important or particularly satisfying. She worked alone, remaining anonymous, at Anderson's suggestion, and reported only to him or his Chief of Staff, Chad Borland. That had her spending her days in the small basement room with her computers, rarely even talking to people on the phone. She knew she wasn't the world's most sociable person, but life as a hermit was losing its appeal.

Approaching graduation with a masters in computer sciences and the prospect of working 14 hour days among fixated computer nerds, she had let the FBI recruiter regal her with stories about tracing computer fraud and illegal profits from organized crime. The reality had been somewhat less thrilling, usually involving computer hackers breaking into government computers.

That in itself had not been uninteresting, for it was something of a challenge. Unfortunately, she found the culture of the FBI stifling in its conservatism, with a deeply entrenched bureaucracy which frowned at the slightest sign of individuality.

The garage at the Hoover building was the same as the one at the Federal Building in San Diego, loaded with blue, black, and the occasional daring dark brown American made four-door sedan. Those sedans were driven by short-haired, clean-shaven white men in dark blue suits who had perfect posture, played racquetball, and practiced handshakes and smiles in front of their mirrors at home.

Women were looked on doubtfully, even suspiciously. They didn't act like the men, after all. And if they tried, well, what was wrong with them anyway, trying to act like men? Were they lesbians? Feminists? Lesbian feminists? To the FBI, that was probably worse than being an Al Qaeda supporter.

No, she admitted to herself. She wouldn't have lasted much longer there, anyway. Her relationship with the SAC in San Diego had been brittle, at best. She simply didn't have the necessary humility to put up with his pompous displays of authority.

She had been a close friend of Cathy Anderson since junior high, and had half lived at the Andersons' place through high school. When Cathy's father had run for President and won she'd been thrilled. And despite knowing him half her life she had still been daunted and slightly awed when Mr. Anderson had called her personally and asked her to come to Washington to talk with him.

He was still Mr. Anderson. He had corrected her the first time she had tried to call him Mr. President.

Christ, Logan. I haven't changed my name. I think you can call me Mr. Anderson like you always have, at least in private.

Technically she was still an FBI agent, but she'd been bumped all the way up to a GS15, worked out of the White House, and took orders straight from Anderson. She also had more security clearances than most cabinet secretaries, and system level passwords for almost every computer the federal government owned.

That was one of the reasons why she stayed. For like every good CS grad there was a bit of the hacker in her heart, and a lot of the snoop to go with it.

She'd caught State out for recommending - in a three hundred page study - that a half billion dollars be set aside for increasing the integrity and security of its international communications. What the report had never touched on, of course, was that congress had allotted fifty million dollars a year for that very purpose almost a decade earlier, and that State had simply fed the money into its overall budget and used it for general expenses.

She'd also discovered the Energy Department fudging on its report about an accident at an aging plutonium producing reactor. Reading through the large, wordy report on the incident left the impression it was the equivalent of spilled milk. The truth, as she'd learned from reading departmental email, was considerably more eye opening. Because of her, the reactor had been shut down permanently.

The more secretive departments were, the less they wanted to tell anyone about their mistakes. So a good deal of her time was spent ferreting out the things CIA, NSA, and the Pentagon didn't want the President aware of. This was usually incompetence, but occasionally involved areas where the department was interpreting policy in a way which agreed with their own agenda rather than that of the President.

She'd found CIA providing under-the-table support to a rebel group in Africa the White House wanted nothing to do with. She'd learned NSA was peeking into things which would have been politically embarrassing if discovered. And she'd found out the Pentagon was still providing funding to a canceled anti-missile system which had, after five billion dollars and ten years of development, still not succeeded in shooting down so much as a pigeon.

But too much of her work was devoted to political things. And she loathed politics. Charting what congressmen were in the pockets of which lobby groups would have been worthwhile if it were intended for prosecution. But it wasn't. Most of the bribery - as she thought of it - was entirely legal. And the politicians in question always piously declared that the money never influenced their votes.

And she despised investigating leaks. If the leak was criminal it should go to the FBI, who had a lot more resources for an investigation. If it wasn't then she wasn't really interested.

But you couldn't say no to the President, even if he was just Mr Anderson..

The search program ended and a long list scrolled down the screen. Her eyes followed it, her lips pursed as she read.

Chad Borland was a puffed up egotist who gloried in being the President's Chief of Staff. And it irked her to discover he was right. In the past two months there had been twice as many embarrassing military leaks as in any two month period preceding them. More noteworthy was that almost all the increased information was coming from the Army.

She scanned the distribution lists for as many of the quoted memos and reports as she could dig out. Some had gone to Congress, but many hadn't. All had found their way to the civilians in DoD, but not on first issue. At least a half dozen hadn't made it that high before turning up in the media. And most were of the same tone: that cutbacks had gone too far and military preparedness was suffering. In the previous two months most leaks had been about incompetence and malfunctioning, overpriced spending programs. Someone was clearly lobbying the public. It wasn't being done very subtly, so she decided the Army's Public Affairs Department wasn't involved (not that they were always terribly subtle either).

This, she decided, was a blunt message being delivered by someone intelligent but unversed in the subtleties of influencing public opinion. The same message, repeated ad nauseam, tended to bore. They needed more variation.

She slumped back in her chair for a long moment, the finger of her right hand instinctively curling a thin length of hair around and around. The Army was such a mess of conflicting commands she didn't know where to start looking.

She sat forward and opened her phone file, then typed in chief of staff +army.

A list appeared, and she considered it briefly, before clicking one.

General McKenzie's office. Lieutenant Moore speaking, sir, a male voice answered.

Good morning. My name is Logan Black. I'm calling from the White House and I need to see General McKenzie on an important matter.

Could you tell me what this concerns, Ma'am? Moore replied.

No. I'm operating by DOP. How soon is General McKenzie available?

One moment please, Ma'am.

There was a pause, while, she was sure, the magic term DOP - Direction Of the President - was hissed into someone's ear. She felt a trifle smug, and conceded to herself that the power of working for the President was another of the reasons she stayed. It wasn't that she liked ordering people around - precisely. But she did enjoy having people jump when she called.

Ma'am?

Yes.

General McKenzie will be available this afternoon after lunch if that's acceptable. If not he will make himself available this morning.

She grinned in satisfaction. This afternoon will do fine, she said. One?

Yes, Ma'am. One will be fine. An escort will be waiting at the South Entrance.

Okay, she said.

Do you have a phone number we can use if something intervenes?

Just call the White House switchboard. They'll know how to reach me.

Yes, Ma'am, he said, sounding suitably impressed.

Of course, lieutenants were easily impressed, she thought with a smile.

She hung up, then glanced at the digital clocks above her main monitor. There was just time to wrap up what she thought of as the Pocketwatch assignment - as in who was in whose pocket - if she skipped lunch again.

She'd make up for it with an afternoon snack, she thought, turning back to the monitor.

Chapter Two

The escort waiting for her when her White House driver pulled up before the Pentagon was a lieutenant colonel with silver at his temples and narrow, frameless glasses. Her height clearly discomforted him as he backed up a bit, but he smiled and held his hand out readily enough.

Ms. Black? he said.

It was a reasonable guess, she decided. Most of those coming in and out were in uniform and male. Those civilian females who worked at the Pentagon tended to be very businesslike, and almost military in their dress and hairstyles.

Logan had decided a football jersey would be unlikely to impress the Pentagon and had changed into a pale cream Armani suit she kept on a hanger in her office for in case. It, or one like it, had been there ever since the day the previous summer when she'd had nothing but a midriff baring tank top and too-tight jeans to wear to the oval office when the President had very unexpectedly called her up.

She'd been three months from the stifling dress codes of the FBI, and had begun to luxuriate in being able to dress as she chose. She'd never been called upstairs before except with several days notice, and no one ever came to visit her in her little cave. The Secret Service, and every secretary and assistant around them, all perfectly coiffed, perfectly made up, and clad in expensive, tailored suits and dresses had looked aghast at her that day. And while Anderson hadn't seemed to even notice – he'd seen her in a lot worse over the years - she had squirmed uncomfortably until she'd been able to make her way back to her office.

Never again.

She nodded and shook hands.

I'm Colonel Hollins. I work in General McKenzie's office.

How do you do.

She went to the counter and showed her White House ID to the Marine there, signed in and received a visitor's badge, then followed the colonel down the main corridor leading deeper into the labyrinth of the Pentagon.

We don't usually get requests directly from the White House, Hollins said.

I tend to do things rather informally, she said. Saves a lot of time and memo writing. Besides, I won't know what I want until I see it.

This doesn't concern the Fireball program, does it?

She raised her eyebrows and smiled lightly. No, she said.

Hollins tried to pry her reason for coming out as they walked, but she fended him off easily enough. She wasn't sure herself what she was going to ask, after all, or she'd have searched it out by computer. She needed to talk with someone high up who knew the system and flow of information and rumors. As aide to the Chief of Staff of the Army, General McKenzie ought to do nicely.

Hollins showed her through McKenzie's outer office, past a lieutenant, probably Moore, with a gold loop hanging from his shoulder. She wondered idly if Moore introduced himself as the aide de camp to the aide de camp.

General McKenzie himself was a powerfully built man of about forty in a very nicely tailored uniform. His square jawed face almost radiated confidence and competence. Her inborn cynicism had her wondering if he'd somehow practiced that interested, helpful expression even as she felt it subtly influencing her.

They shook hands across his desk and she realized with faint surprise that he was as tall as her. At six-two, she tended to look down on a lot of men, and preferred those she could see eye to eye with.

We're always delighted to be of assistance to the White House.

She caught his eyes flicking down her body every so briefly, and let her eyes catch his knowingly. He neither blushed nor apologized, but let his lips curl up slightly as he motioned her to one of the leather chairs before the desk. He was awfully good looking, she thought, wondering why her image of generals ran to old gray-haired men.

Well then, I'm going to make your day, she replied, sitting down and crossing her legs.

How can I help you? he asked, sitting forward attentively.

The White House is concerned about a series of apparently orchestrated leaks to the media, she said.

Leaks? he repeated in surprise.

The President's Chief of Staff suspects the leaks are being carried out by direction of someone at a reasonably high level, she said. A computer model of the type, frequency and distribution seems to support that theory.

Are you suggesting someone of General staff rank in the Army is deliberately carrying out a... a conspiracy of some type to embarrass the President? he demanded, bristling.

Shocking, isn't it? she said with a cynical smile.

Ms. Black, he said in a chilly voice. If you had been around Washington as long as I have you would realize that almost every leak which is alleged to come from the Pentagon originates with congressional committees.

Spare me, she said, waving her hand casually.

She saw his startled indignation, and remembered she was dealing with a general. She could almost feel Hollins' shock at her insolence, and kicked herself mentally. Her social skills were really going to hell with just her computers for company.

"Too many of