Crimson Phoenix

Book 1: Victoria Emerson Thriller

by John Gilstrap

Genres: Political Thrillers; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

From John Gilstrap, the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Jonathan Grave novels, comes Crimson Phoenix—first in the new Victoria Emerson thriller series. With America brought to the brink of destruction, one
woman becomes the last hope of a nation and its people …
Victoria Emerson is a congressional member of the U. S. House of Representatives for the state of West Virginia. Her aspirations have always been to help her community and to avoid the ambitious power plays of her peers in
Washington, D. C. Then Major Joseph McCrea appears on her doorstep and uses the code phrase Crimson Phoenix, meaning this is not a drill. The United States is on the verge of nuclear war. Victoria must accompany McCrea to a secure bunker.
She cannot bring her family.
A single mother, Victoria refuses to abandon her three teenage sons. Denied entry to the bunker, they nonetheless survive the nuclear onslaught that devastates the country. The land is nearly uninhabitable. Electronics have been
rendered useless. Food is scarce. Millions of scared and ailing people await aid from a government that is unable to regroup, much less organize a rescue from the chaos.
Victoria devotes herself to reestablishing order—only to encounter the harsh realities required of a leader dealing with desperate people …

Release date: February 23, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 512

Sample

MCCREA CHECKED HIS WATCH AS HE PRESSED THE SMARTPHONE against his ear. Ten-fifteen. He knew she was home, and he’d give her three more rings before he kicked in the door. Finally the connection clicked. He started talking before the other side had a chance to speak. “Is this Victoria Emerson, U.S. representative for West Virginia’s Third Congressional District?”

“Who is this?”

He recognized her voice and heard the annoyance. “Please respond to my question,” he said. His tone sounded as urgent as he intended.

“Yes, it is,” she said. “Now, who is this?”

“Major Joseph McCrea,” he replied. “CRIMSON PHOENIX is active. This is not a drill.”

A moment of silence on the other end. “CRIMSON PHOENIX?” Her voice trembled. “Not Crimson Shield. CRIMSON PHOENIX?” The difference meant everything.

“Yes, ma’am, CRIMSON PHOENIX. I am here to escort you to safety.”

“You’re here?”

“I’m standing on your front stoop. Please open the door for me so I don’t have to open it for you. My way will be too loud for the neighborhood at this time of night.” He heard footsteps from the inside. A chain slid, and the door opened a crack. Even though he could see only an eye and a cheek, he recognized the face that had been made famous on so many talking-head shows.

Victoria Emerson first focused on him, but then her eyes widened as she saw the soldiers he’d brought with him. Her blank expression showed the enormity of it all. “Is this really real?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am, it is. You’ve got five minutes to get your stuff together.”

The United States was at war. DEFCON 1. Release of nuclear weapons imminent.

“I–I don’t know that I can be ready that quickly.”

McCrea had expected that. And he had an answer. “Ma’am, I have orders. I’m taking you to safety. You do not have a vote in this.” He splayed his fingers. “Five minutes.”

The congresswoman spun on her heel and made a beeline to the split-level staircase of their modest Arlington, Virginia, home. McCrea figured it had to be a rental.

“Luke!” she yelled. “Caleb! Out here, right now.” She disappeared upstairs. “Luke and Caleb, now!”

Doors opened and adolescents protested in unison: “Mom!”

“How about a knock?” one of them said. His voice had changed. McCrea heard the teenage self-righteousness loud and clear.

“Both of you,” Mrs. Emerson said. “Grab your go bags and be ready in three minutes.”

“I’ve got a math test tomorrow. Can’t I skip this one?”

“No,” she said. Her tone left no room for discussion. “We do these things for a reason. And I wager that math had nothing to do with the way you snapped that computer shut so quickly.”

“You heard me, Luke?”

“I’m doing it now,” a younger voice said. “Where are we going this time?”

“Three minutes,” she repeated.

He heard the sounds of hangers scraping on closet rods and of thumping against the walls. The go-bag reference had not been lost on him. It’s as if she’d been preparing for the moment.

“I hate bug-out drills!” the older boy yelled.

His mother yelled back, “I don’t care!”

A good-looking blond-haired kid of about thirteen materialized at the top of the stairs. He wore a long-sleeve shirt, jeans and hiking boots. He’d shrugged a good-size jungle camouflaged rucksack onto his back. Maybe a little too heavy for him, but he seemed to be handling it okay. “I’m ready!” he announced.

The boy trotted down the stairs, then stopped short when he noticed McCrea in the foyer. He slung the ruck off his back and started reaching for what McCrea now recognized to be a taken-down Ruger 10/22 rifle. “Mom!” he yelled.

McCrea backpedaled a couple of steps and held out his hands, fingers splayed. “Whoa, whoa,” he said. “Easy there, cowboy. I’m the good guy. Which one are you? Caleb or Luke?”

“Mom!”

McCrea became self-consciously aware of his own M4 rifle, which was slung across the front of his body. He slid it around his back. “I know this is startling,” he said. “But you’re really not in danger.” You’re also not coming along. He considered that last part to be news that was better broken by the mother.

“Mom!”

Victoria Emerson appeared at the top of the stairs dressed identically to her son, complete with rucksack and weapon. “Relax, Luke,” she said. “That’s Major . . .”

“McCrea, ma’am.”

“That’s Major McCrea. He’s coming with us.” As she walked down the stairs, she called over her shoulder, “Caleb! Now!”

A gangly sixteen-year-old appeared at the top of the stairs wearing a T-shirt, shorts and flip-flops. He’d be handsome one day, McCrea thought, once he grew into his hands and feet. McCrea figured the outfit to be a silent thumb in his mom’s eye.

“Caleb Morris Emerson,” she said in the tone that still inspired fear. “Put the correct clothes on and be ready to go.”

“Why? All we do is drive around and—”

She sharpened her look and he backed away.

“Okay, fine.” Caleb stormed back into his room. Coat hangers clattered against the walls again, boots thumped against the floor.

“Are you okay, Mom?” Luke asked. “You seem . . . nervous. And why is he here?”

Mrs. Emerson ignored the question, and it wasn’t McCrea’s to answer. “Is this really real?” she asked him.

“Ma’am, given your position, I imagine that you know more than I do. I have my orders, and you are them.”

Caleb arrived at the top of the stairs. This time, his clothes matched those of his mother and little brother. “Who the hell is this?”

“My name is Major McCrea. Pleased to meet you, Caleb. Ma’am, we have to leave right now.” He reached out to grab her arm and she pulled away.

“How dare you touch me,” she said.

Caleb rushed forward. “Hey, asshole, what are you—”

“Quiet, son,” McCrea said. “Ma’am, I already told you. You don’t have a say in what follows. I would love for you to follow me, but if I have to carry you, that’s what I will do.”

“You can’t talk to my mom like that,” Caleb said. “She’s a member of Congress.”

“Caleb, hush,” Victoria snapped.

“But you’re his boss!”

Mrs. Emerson held up a hand to calm her son. “Caleb, we’re going with the major.”

Luke looked as frightened as Caleb looked angry. “Mom?”

Apparently, she was really going to make McCrea do this. “Just you, ma’am. Not the boys.”

“Bullshit,” she said. “I’m not leaving them.”

“Ma’am, you know the rules. I am authorized only—”

“Major McCrea,” she said. “I understand that you have your orders, but if you try to separate me from my kids, one of us—you or me—is going to wake up dead in the morning. Do not try me on this point, sir.”

McCrea saw fire in her eyes. His instincts told him she was speaking the truth. His orders were clear. He was to deliver Representative Victoria Emerson to the U.S. Government Relocation Center—the Annex. The rules said no family, but the facility’s rules and his orders were different things. He decided to let the Annex staff sort out their own problems.

“Very well, then,” McCrea said. “All of you. But we have to move now.”

Mrs. Emerson put an arm around each of her boys and ushered both out the door into the humid August air. “You heard the major,” she said. “Time to go.”

“Go where?” Caleb protested. “This isn’t how a bug-out drill works. Who is this guy?”

“I’ll explain in the car,” Victoria said. “We have to go.”

Once they were all out on the front stoop, Victoria closed the door behind them. Then she pulled up short. “Dammit,” she said. “I forgot my keys.”

“Keep going,” McCrea said. “I’ll personally replace anything that might get stolen.” He used a gentle touch on her backpack to keep the parade moving out into the yard.

Luke craned his neck to look at McCrea. “Are you really going to do that?” he asked. “Replace anything that gets stolen?”

“No,” McCrea said. “What’s in the rucksacks?”

“Survival gear,” Victoria said, and recited the list.

Ah, so they werere preppers. Interesting. “Any electronic gear in them?” McCrea asked. “Phones, tablets, e-readers, laptops?”

The boys stared, clearly a silent yes.

McCrea made a beckoning motion with his hand. “Hand them over. All of it. Cell phones too.”

“Why do you need them?” Victoria asked.

“Because my orders tell me to confiscate them. And, ma’am, you can bet that I have orders will be my standard answer to every question you might have. I’m not making this up as I go along.”

“What are you going to do with our stuff?” Caleb asked. He hadn’t moved.

McCrea felt his patience thinning. “Caleb, here’s the thing,” he said. “You can take them out carefully and hand them over, or I can have my troops take all of your stuff and leave it behind.”

Caleb looked wounded. “Mom?”

Mrs. Emerson showed annoyance, but it wasn’t clear with whom. McCrea would understand if she didn’t like him very much under the circumstances.

“Do what he says.”

“But, Mom—”

“Now, Caleb. You too, Luke. Take out all of your electronics and hand them over to the major.”

Victoria unslung her pack and set the example for her boys. When Caleb complied, Luke followed suit, handing over a lot of gear. Game cartridges, game players, laptops. If nothing else, their rucks would be a lot lighter.

McCrea said, “Thank you. Now, what’s with the rifles?”

“Do your orders say to confiscate those, too?” Victoria asked.

“No, ma’am, they don’t.”

“Then the rifles stay.”

McCrea wanted to argue, but she had a point. Why not let them have their rifles? If they survived what was coming, a little firepower might go a long way. “We need to get going.”

Soldiers formed a security corridor that dead-ended at a black Suburban idling at the curb. The entire detail was armed with rifles, but they mostly looked terrified.

As they reached the curb, Caleb pulled up short. “No,” he said. “This isn’t the way it works, Mom. This has never been the way it works. We go in our own car because that’s where the extra provisions are.”

His mother pulled on his arm. “Not this time, Caleb.”

“Stop!” Caleb yelled. He was far louder than he needed to be, and McCrea knew this was his way of getting the most attention. “Tell me what is going on! I am not getting into a car with a guy in a uniform who says he’s a general or a major or whatever. Jesus, Mom, you’ve trained us not to do that very thing.”

This was going to spin out of control. Neighbors would soon be peeking out windows, and maybe they were already calling the police.

Mrs. Emerson shot her hand out like a striking snake and cupped Caleb’s neck at the spot where his spine joined his skull and she pulled him close. “Do not shout,” she said. She looked to the men who surrounded her, then dropped her voice even lower. “The reason this is different is because this time it’s not a drill.”

He stiffened. “W-what are you telling me?”

“I’m telling you to get in the car,” she said. “We can talk all you want in there. But not out here.”

To her left, Luke stood very still. A shadow engulfed his face, but glistening eyes shined through. “Mom, I’m scared,” he said.

“We’re all scared,” she said, cupping the back of his head, too, and urging him toward the Suburban.

Mrs. Emerson looked to McCrea, but he kept his expression blank. Next to him, a young soldier looked close to tears. “You should get home to your family,” Mrs. Emerson said to him.

The soldier stiffened and shifted his eyes to the ground.

McCrea added more pressure to her back. “Inside, ma’am,” he said. “It’s not a short drive.”

McCrea helped them doff their rucks and handed them to the E-8, who would be slumming as their driver. “First Sergeant, put these in the back, please.” Once the family was inside, McCrea closed the door behind them, then climbed into the shotgun seat. The driver closed up the cargo bed, slid behind the wheel and they were on their way.

“Mom, you said we’d talk about what’s happening once we were in the car,” Caleb reminded. “We’re there now.”

Mrs. Emerson ignored her son. “Major McCrea?”

He turned in his seat to look at her.

“Why are the roads clear? Why haven’t our phones squealed with an emergency alert? Why don’t things seem more urgent?”

“I’m not the policy person, Congresswoman. Congressperson?”

“Victoria is fine in private,” she said. If this were a different day, she’d have asked to be called ma’am, but not tonight. While she was senior to every military officer in the country, and they needed to know that, this was going to be stressful enough without adding unnecessary formality to the mix.

She was tempted to press for an answer when a piece fell into place for her. The NCA—National Command Authority, collectively the president and secretary of defense—wanted the elements of the federal government ensconced in safety before the possible retaliatory strike could be launched. They couldn’t alert the media or the general public without alerting the enemy.

“Oh, my God,” she said. “We’re launching the first strike, aren’t we?” She directed her words to the back of McCrea’s head, but she was surprised to hear them spoken out loud.

She’d almost nailed it. Actually, Israel was going to launch a strike on Iran, but McCrea hadn’t been briefed on what she was cleared to know. He stayed silent.

“Mom?” Luke said through a choked voice. “What are you talking about?”

“Are we going to war?” Caleb asked. He sounded even more frightened than his brother, but a kid couldn’t possibly understand the ramifications of war.

“I think we might, sweetie,” she said.

“You’re a congresswoman,” Caleb protested. “Don’t they have to get your permission first? We studied that.”

“Only for a declared war,” she answered. “The president has wide discretion short of that.”

And we gave her that power, McCrea thought. The United States had not fired a bullet in a declared war since Japan’s surrender in 1945, but it had nonetheless sent thousands of its sons and daughters to die in conflicts all around the world.

Victoria was only in her third two-year term in the House of Representatives, having won each time by huge margins in her district, and while she was as aware as any news junkie of the growing troubles between the U.S. and Iran and Russia, with Israel being the focus of all, she was nowhere near the top secret inside scoop on impending war.

“What about Adam?” Luke asked.

Victoria gasped. “Major, I need to contact my son,” she said.

McCrea cast a look to the driver, but said nothing.

“Major McCrea, did you hear me?”

“I heard you,” he said. He felt a flare of anger in his gut.

“I need to call him.”

“That can’t happen,” McCrea said. “Operational security is paramount.”

“But my son is in jeopardy.”

Again, McCrea said nothing. He knew that if he spoke, it might get ugly.

“Major, I need your phone.”

“Ma’am, I can’t allow you to use the phone. I can’t allow you to use flares, smoke signals or loud screams. The rules for CRIMSON PHOENIX are very clear on this.”

Victoria leaned forward in her seat, grabbed a handful of McCrea’s uniform shirt. “I’m not asking, Major, I’m telling you—”

That was it. McCrea whirled in his seat, taking her on, face-to-face. “You’re telling me that your son is in danger!” he growled. “Yeah, I get that. So are my daughters. And my wife. And you know what? They’re entirely unaware that they’re likely to die tonight. Three hundred fifty million American sons and daughters are in danger of dying, Representative Emerson. You, of course, have a free pass to a safe bunker, because you’re more important than the rest of us. You’d be wise to remember, though, that you and your colleagues define the lucky eleven hundred. Countless sons and daughters are about to die. I pray to God that yours and mine are not among them.”

Victoria started to say something, but McCrea wasn’t done.

“I think there’s a very good chance that I won’t see tomorrow, ma’am, and I don’t think there’s a chance in hell that I’ll see next weekend. But I have orders to deliver you to safety, and that is what I am going to do. I have orders to maintain strict electronic silence on this, and I’m going to do that, too. If I’m remembered by anyone for anything I’ve done, it will be that my last act on earth was to obey my orders. Are we clear on this?”

Victoria felt stunned. The heat in McCrea’s eyes was blistering. His words infuriated her, but less for the delivery than for the reality of their meaning. America was going to war.

And millions were likely to die.

THE HILLTOP MANOR RESORT HAD BEEN A PART OF THE WEST Virginia landscape for nearly a century. Located on fifteen hundred acres atop a mountain that afforded unparalleled views of the Catoctin River Valley, the Hilltop boasted two world-class golf courses, miles of riding and hiking trails, its own bowling alley and concert venues, and even skeet and trapshooting ranges. Having recently hired an executive chef who had her own Food Channel television show, it was even more famous now than ever before. Wedding parties commonly spent $400 per head for receptions, and guests were lucky to get away for less than $500 per night to stay.

As House Speaker Penn Glendale sped past the massive white marble structure in the company of his security team, the center of a three-vehicle motorcade, he remembered the weeks he had spent here as a child with his parents as they escaped from New York City to enjoy the quiet, fresh air. He had no idea then—as few had any idea now—what secrets were protected inside the sprawling complex. Colloquially known as the Annex, top secret, sensitive compartmented information (SCI) documents referred to the resort as the United States Government Relocation Facility, its construction necessitated by a reporter’s decision in 1994 to reveal the location of the previous GRF that had been built in the 1950s about a hundred miles south of here. That one decision by a journalist, with the support of his newspaper, to release the information to the world threatened the continuity of the U.S. government for nearly twelve years as a new location was found and construction completed.

Strapped in the seat next to him in the back of the Suburban, Arlen Strasky, Speaker Glendale’s chief of staff, pleaded with his wife on his cell phone. “Greta, my God, why aren’t you on the road yet? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. You’ve got to leave now. I’m sorry, I know I’m being cryptic, and I don’t mean to scare you. I mean to impress upon you the importance of getting on the road. What? No, toward West Virginia. I can’t answer that question, honey. Soon, I hope. The destination doesn’t matter. Just get on the road . . . Hello?” Strasky brought the phone away from his face and looked at the screen, then shot a glance to his boss. “I’ve got no signal.”

“It’s part of the plan,” Penn explained. “A lot of traffic is going to be filing in here over the next few hours. That’ll attract people’s attention, and we don’t need loose lips sinking our ship.” No matter how many times he re-read the laminated red card that he’d been carrying in his wallet for the past eighteen years, he couldn’t drive it all into his memory. The government relocation protocol was a complex one.

“When do we let the world know what we’re about to do?” Strasky asked.

“When the Homeland Security secretary gives the order,” Penn replied. “And I presume he will get the order from the president.”

“Don’t you think they should have done that already?”

“To what end?” the Speaker asked. “If this goes well, the whole thing will be over before there’s anything to report. The Israelis launch, Iran ceases to exist and the war is over.”

“Mr. Speaker, you can’t possibly believe that it will be that simple. If you did, we wouldn’t be about to climb into a bunker.”

“Protocols exist for a reason, Arlen. This is a formality. When nuclear forces are in play, the government relocation protocol goes into effect.”

“And the retaliation?” Strasky asked.

“NCA doesn’t expect one,” Penn said.

“And if they’re wrong?”

“Don’t even think it,” Penn said. “That would spell the end of everything, and then an alert wouldn’t make much of a difference, anyway.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Speaker, I think this is a bad idea.”

“A lot of people who’re on their way here think this is a bad idea. But Helen Blanton is president of the United States, and this is her call. She fully supports Israel’s right to defend itself.”

“A preemptive strike.” Strasky said the phrase as if it were poison. “You know we’ll get blamed for this. Our weapons, our strategy. Israel is merely a vector. History is going to tear us a new one.”

“Not all decisions are purely political, Arlen.”

“If you ask me, there’s no decision that could be more political than declaring war.”

“We’re not declaring war,” Penn corrected, stating the obvious. “Israel is. If Her Majesty, Madam President Blanton, had alerted the House, we would have said no.”

“Then why don’t we take it public? Leak it?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“Yeah, we’d lose the element of surprise,” Strasky said.

“Exactly.”

“And if we did, then we could pump the brakes on killing a couple million people. How is that a bad thing?”

Penn felt his face redden. “Are you hearing yourself, Arlen? There comes a point when the train is too far out of the station. Our only response at this point is to say yes, ma’am, and then get with the program. It’s time to start praying for startling success and utter destruction of Iran’s ability to make war on its neighbors.”

“And the Russians—”

“Won’t do anything,” Penn snapped. “Look, it’s not like this is unearned. Iran is a terror state that has promised to destroy Israel. Now that they’ve got their nukes, their rhetoric is only getting hotter. Israel has no choice but to react, and we’re going to support them.”

“What about the Pakis?”

“India would love the opportunity to barbecue their neighbor,” Penn said. “I don’t worry about that at all.”

“I just think this is wrong,” Strasky said.

“Duly noted.”

“Zero notice!” Strasky raised his voice. “Jesus, sir, we deserve more than a couple of minutes to get on the road.”

“That’s all security,” Penn explained. He wasn’t thrilled about springing this on members and their staffs—for heaven’s sake, as Speaker, he was brought into the loop only an hour before the others—but he understood the president’s concerns. Washington leaked information like the Titanic leaked water. For CRIMSON PHOENIX to succeed, surprise was the single-most critical component.

In the front seat, the Army colonel in the shotgun seat turned to face his VIP passengers. The Velcro patch over his pocket read: MILLER. “Mr. Speaker, we’re nearly there. Remember to leave everything in the vehicle. No electronics, no paper. Nothing enters into the bunker, sir.”

Penn leaned to his left to get a better view through the windshield. A hundred yards ahead, he could see a stone archway illuminated by the Suburban’s headlights. An enormous blast door, easily fifteen feet across, had been pulled open to reveal a tunnel, the inside of which was lit rather dimly, but which illuminated a flurry of activity as people in military uniforms swarmed around doing whatever they had been trained to do.

The Suburban pulled up short of the mouth of the tunnel. “This is it, sir,” the colonel said. “We need to leave the vehicle here, but we’ll escort you to the door.”

“And then what?”

“And then I hand you off to the people in charge,” Miller said.

“But what happens to you?” Penn asked.

Colonel Miller took a long, noisy breath and scowled. “Mr. Speaker, I have no idea if you’re cleared to hear the answer to that question, but I am one hundred percent certain that I am not cleared to share it with you.” He sold it with just the right amount of smile as he climbed out of the vehicle.

Out of habit, Penn waited a few seconds for his door to be opened for him, and when he realized that this was not his normal security team—they were military officers, not officers of the Capitol Police Force—he pulled the handle and opened it himself.

The late-summer mountain air felt crisp against his skin as he stepped away from his vehicle toward Miller. His peripheral vision caught Strasky approaching them as he asked the colonel, “What now?”

“Follow me.”

As Speaker of the House of Representatives—second in line to the presidency—Penn was used to a degree of deference from his security team, and from military officers, for that matter. No such deference existed in Miller’s demeanor. This man was 100 percent business.

And he walked half a step faster than Penn could follow. The Speaker had passed his sixty-fourth birthday just a month before, and his love for rich food, good wine and even better scotch had erased all but the last traces of his youthful athleticism. Arlen Strasky, on the other hand, still competed in two Ironman races a year, and likely hadn’t gained an ounce in the thirty years since he’d turned twenty.

As they neared the gaping maw in the mountainside that was the entrance to the Annex, Penn noted that the opening was smaller than it had looked from afar, and that the blast door looked twice as thick. He thought it looked like the most massive bank vault door in the universe.

They were still thirty feet away when a man of military bearing and hairstyle approached them from the entrance. Penn doubted that the man could be forty years old. His neck seemed to slope directly from his ears to his shoulders, and the front of the baseball cap he’d pulled low over his eyes displayed a green-and-black American flag.

“Speaker Glendale!” the man called as he approached. He offered his hand. “Welcome to the United States Government Relocation Center. We call it the Annex, and this will be our home for the next little while. I’m Scott Johnson.”

Penn shook the man’s hand. “This is my chief of staff, Arlen Strasky. What branch of the military are you with, Mr. Johnson?”

“I used to be Army, sir, but I was seven and done. I work for Solara.”

Penn looked to Strasky and got a shrug. “What is Solara?”

“We’re the contractor in charge of the Annex, sir. Please follow me.” He spun on his heel and headed back toward the blast door.

Penn turned to thank Colonel Miller for his efforts, but the man and his crew had already wandered off to join a clutch of other military folks.

“Speaker Glendale?” Johnson called. He’d pulled up twenty feet ahead and beckoned for them. “We really don’t have a lot of time, sir.”

Penn and Arlen caught up. “You were saying—”

“Yes, sir, I was explaining about Solara. In peacetime, we’re the folks who make sure that all the provisions are in, and that al. . .