Day Zero by Marc Cameron

said.
    “Well,” Drake said, “we can’t have that screwing up our plans. What’s your take on the Uyghur prisoners? Do you think turning them over to Pakistan will be enough to push Chen Min over the edge?”
    “I do,” McKeon said. He shot a glance at Ran, who rolled her eyes. She could not stand Hartman Drake and begged McKeon to let her kill the man every night when they went to bed. “We cannot be too brash.”
    McKeon knew his words were falling on deaf ears. Drake was the very picture of brash. Everything he did was flamboyant, from his colorful bowties to his firebrand speeches. McKeon’s biological father had dreamed of the day when one of his children—or the children he’d placed in positions of power—made it to the White House. It had taken years of patience and planning to make it happen. But it would take much more patience and planning to make it worthwhile. A sitting president, even one bent on the fall of the United States, had to work slowly. He could not, for instance, just hand the bomb to Iran, normalize relations with North Korea—or declare war on China. Everything had to appear to come from the outside. If he moved too quickly or acted outside the apparent best interest of the nation, there were still plenty of wary members of Congress who would bring impeachment charges in a heartbeat.
    No, there were better ways to bring down a government, insidious ways that would see the American public clamoring for—even demanding—the very actions that would bring about their own destruction.
    “Chen Min will rise to the bait. There is no doubt of that.” McKeon took a deep breath, too fatigued to rehash things they’d discussed ad nauseam. “Ranjhani’s plan will help us keep up the anti-China rhetoric with the public.”
    “Another bomb.” Drake snorted, his dismissive tone rising to the surface again. His tone made McKeon consider letting Ran have her way. But he needed the imbecile for a while longer.
    “A bomb, indeed,” McKeon said. “But not just any bomb. A simple explosion destroys only steel and bone. My father was a brilliant man. He knew that America was strong enough to fend off any outside encroachment of Islam. We have seen how good this country is at stopping attack after attack. But my father knew, and stated many times, when this country falls, it will be because it rips itself to pieces from within.”
    Drake laughed to himself, as if he’d just thought of something funny. His feet slid off the desk and fell to the floor. Turning slightly, he took a moment to check out the reflection of his shoulders in the Rose Garden window. “I think my biceps might be shrinking. I have got to get down to the gym.” He glanced up. “Anyway, good thing we’re keeping an eye on Virginia Ross. We do have eyes on her, don’t we?”
    “Yes,” McKeon said, suddenly more tired than he had ever been. With a partner like Drake, he might as well be doing this alone. “We have eyes on everyone we know of who had a relationship to Winfield Palmer. But the time for watching is over.”
    “Damn, Lee.” Drake gave him a condescending grimace. “I’m surprised you ever got elected to public office. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that you have a creepy way of saying things?” He grabbed a gym bag from under the desk and stopped to look at the Vice President. “Every time you talk about this thing we’re doing, I expect you to follow up with an evil laugh. ‘The time for watching is over. . . . Bwahahahahah.’ I mean, shit, give me a break. . . .”
    Ran tensed at the insult. She took a half step forward. Thick veins throbbed at the base of her neck. Drake was so caught up in his own joke that he didn’t notice how close he was to dying. McKeon gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, stopping her. He mouthed the word soon as the President continued his mock laughter and walked past the Secret Service agent posted outside the door.

Chapter 11
    Pentagon City, Virginia