Chain of Command - Prologue by Kathy B

Craig Thornton turned off the alarm and sat up in bed. He ran his hands through his hair and sighed. Morning. He stumbled into the bathroom and paused to look in the mirror.

Another day.

No, not another day. The days were very different with a new president in office. And he hated every one of them. He shook his head in disgust. How that guy got elected, he'd never know. What was the matter with people? Couldn't they see? Didn't they care? Or were people just more stupid nowadays?

The face staring back at him looked tired. And why not? This was his third presidential administration. Almost...thirteen years now protecting the leader of the free world, whoever that may be. But he'd been with the Secret Service even longer than that, rising up through the ranks.

He picked up his razor. His hand paused in midair, as both hands began to shake uncontrollably. Craig dropped the razor when a dull throb began just behind his eyes. He pressed his hands against the sides of his head as the agony continued to build. What the hell was happening to him? It felt like his brain was trying to escape from his skull. His knees buckled and he collapsed onto the bathroom floor, curling up into a ball. The ache wasn't going away. The room grew dim and sparks of light danced before his eyes.

He rolled onto his knees and crawled into the bedroom, even as the floor tilted and wavered under him. He grabbed at the phone on the nightstand, pulling it onto the floor. With a shaking hand, he hit the speed dial button for 911.

"Help..." he gasped through the pain, in a barely-audible voice. And then everything went completely dark.

Craig had awakened in the hospital.

The doctor had just left, already informing Thornton that he was expected to spend the night, then he could go home in the morning. After that, he was expected to take two weeks of mandatory leave due to "an attack most likely induced by stress."

Stress bad enough to require hospitalization...Damn...A man who'd had a breakdown couldn't remain in a high security position like his. If they didn't retire him, they'd most likely put him on light duty behind a desk for the rest of his career.

Craig sighed and rub his eyes with one hand. Now he wished he had shifted his priorities all those years ago and at least had a family after all.

When he lowered his hand, he saw a small Asian nurse had soundlessly entered his room. In a businesslike fashion, she held his wrist while she swabbed his arm with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball. Then she emptied the contents of a hypodermic needle into his upper arm.

"What was that for?" he asked.

"You sleep now," she said in broken English, and then she disappeared.

He soon had no other choice.

When Craig opened his eyes, he found they had moved him. He squinted against the overhead fluorescent lights. Why did they move him? And where? His mouth felt dry, he thought, noticing a small pitcher of water on the table beside the bed.

He started to sit up, but immediately felt weak and dizzy. Hands trembling, he poured himself some water and swallowed. The sweet, tepid liquid felt good against his parched throat.

It was so quiet here. Maybe that's why they moved him. But where was everybody?

He thought he heard a lock turning when the door opened and a small Asian man in a white coat walked in.

"Ah, Mr. Thornton, good morning," he said in a lightly-accented voice. He had a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "And how are we feeling today?"

Craig eyed him warily. "Where am I?"

"In a small, private hospital."

"Why?"

"Some...benefactors of yours were looking out for you, Mr. Thornton. They insisted you be brought here. They felt you would have better care than you could get where you were."

Craig looked around him and started to rise. "You'll have to tell me who they are, so I can thank them. After I get home. I was told I could leave."

The little man frowned and shook his head, easily pushing Craig back against the sheets.

"Oh, no, Mr. Thornton. The people who told you that were mistaken. I'm afraid you can't leave just yet. You had a severe attack brought on by stress. You must rest. You Americans don't take care of your health properly--"

"Where's my clothes?" Craig interrupted. This time he got to his feet, mentally cursing the unsteadiness in his knees.

"No!" said the doctor sharply. Two large Asian men in military uniforms appeared in the doorway behind the doctor. "Please get back into bed." It was a command.

Craig looked at them in surprise, then slowly complied. He managed a thin smile. "Guards? Am I under arrest? Or...kidnapped?"

The man grinned again, only more broadly. "Nothing like that. These men have been ordered here to look after your best interests--your health--since you yourself choose not to do it. You should be more appreciative of your benefactors, Mr. Thornton."

"When do I meet them?" He was starting to feel sleepy again.

The little man hesitated. "Soon," he said softly. "Very soon." And then he turned and left, leaving the guards just outside.

Craig stared at the door, his eyes narrowing as he heard the door being locked behind them.

Now, what did the Chinese want with him?

Craig awoke slowly, dragging his mind from sleep as he heard someone come into his room.

The doctor, with his ever-present grin came in. Craig lay there, allowing the doctor to conduct a brief, cursory examination.

"You are doing nicely. How are you feeling?"

"Sleepy."

"That is good. Rest is good. But you eat now." One of the guards entered carrying a tray of covered dishes and set it by the bed.

"I'm not one for hospital food..."

"That is good, Mr. Thornton."

Craig began uncovering each plate, staring at them in surprise. "Prime rib...roasted potatoes...green beans almondine..." There was tea, too. Herbal, smelled like. No caffeine for man who'd been stressed.

"You eat now. Mr. Fung will be in to see you shortly."

"One of my...'benefactors?'"

"You eat now."

And again Craig was alone. He was hungry. He didn't remember when he'd eaten last, and had no idea anymore what day it was. But these people seemed to be taking good care of him, and this sure beat a tray of hospital meatloaf and green jell-o.

Whoever they were, they must have been watching him. The instant he was done eating, a slightly-built, elegantly dressed Asisan man came in.

"Mr. Fung?"

"How do you do, Mr. Thornton. Getting the proper care, I trust. I am pleased. Perhaps next you would prefer something more comfortable to recuperate in than that undignified hospital gown."

"Not to sound ungrateful, but who are you? What do you want?"

Fung calmly sat down in a nearby chair.

"To see you get well. We are your friends and we ask the chance to prove it to you. Right now you need us. And some day we may need you."

"Why would the Chinese need me?"

"Taiwanese. We know all about you, Mr. Thornton. We are your friends and your best interests are our interests. How was your meal?"

"It was fine. So this has to do with me and the Secret Service?" Craig was starting to figure it out now. It was about his job. He was a good agent. One of the best. And he prided himself on that.

"We want you to recognize that your loyalty has been misplaced. Look at yourself, Mr. Thornton. You have no family. Is it because you sacrificed personal happiness for your responsibilities to the Secret Service? You know they will remove you from your position now, because of your health, do you not? You are a risk.

"Is that how they repay you for years of dedicated service risking your life? They re-assign you--demote you--because of a breakdown they themselves have caused you. You have given them too much. And now they want to take more."

"You want me to--?"

"We want you to consider working for us. Think it over while you are here. Your agency thinks you are away on a two-week vacation. Of course you are free to leave whenever you want. But only when you are sufficiently recovered.

"What if I say no?"

Fung smiled. Craig didn't like that smile.

"Mr. Thornton, we are your friends. I think that once you have considered it thoroughly, you will find our offer most attractive. We shall talk again later."

And once again, Craig was alone.

For the third time that day, Craig glanced up at the TV that was bolted to the wall. He hadn't figured out a way to make it work. He would have to remember to ask Fung about it.

Less than two hours later, Craig started to feel ill again, like before. He was dizzy, weak, and nauseous. His body began to twitch uncontrollably.

Time slowed and his senses seemed to become more keen to everything around him. Everything appeared distorted.

Suddenly the TV came to life. It seemed to grow bigger and bigger until it was all he could see. The President was on and he was saying things, doing things...Bad things...Horrible things...Was this real? He couldn't tell anymore.

His body began to ache all over--his chest, his groin, pain everywhere. His eyes teared until he could no longer see the TV screen. He heard a voice screaming in terrible pain, but he couldn't tell for sure if it was his.

Through the fog of pain, light, images, and noise, he heard a voice talking to him calmly.

"You see the kind of man your President is? He is not your friend. He is an evil man and it is his fault you are suffering now. He has made you this way. We are your friends. We can take away the pain...because we care about you, Mr. Thornton."

For the next few days, Craig continued to have the stress-related attacks that first put him in the hospital. Though they were fewer in number, he still wondered if he would ever be well again.

Each time was the same: the dizziness, weakness, and pain. The twitching in his body. The noise and images...Jack Cahill...Once he thought he heard another voice, angry, shouting accusingly "you gave him too much" but then like always, the comforting voice returned--that soothing voice reminding him who his real friends were. And he had come to trust that voice as the pain and noise and images died away, and he fell into another exhausted sleep.

Jack Cahill. The Taiwanese were right about him. Craig had had time to think about it. Thornton's men put their lives on the line every day for this guy. Their backgrounds and characters were thoroughly analyzed and scrutinized down to the smallest detail before they were allowed the "opportunity" of risking their necks.

But Cahill had no such scrutiny. No test of moral character to pass. No opportunity to say to him "No, you can't have this job because we can't trust you." And there should have been. The guy was an embarrassment and more of a risk than the worst agent in the Secret Service.

Craig hated himself for having given up so much to risk guarding someone so worthless. He hated himself even more for expecting others to do it without question or hesitation. Cahill owed him, dammit, and all the other agents, too.

Craig's hand idly picked at the pajamas they had given him to replace the hospital gown he had been wearing. Dark blue silk.

Yes, the Taiwanese had treated him well. The medical care was prompt and courteous. Every time he'd had an attack, someone had been there to help him.

Every meal had been perfect. They'd even sent a young woman to his room, ostensibly to give him a Swedish massage. More like a Bangkok massage, he thought, grinning wolfishly at the memory.

Fung had not visited him since their first meeting and that puzzled him slightly. He still wasn't sure what exactly they wanted him to do. Then he wondered if maybe they had changed their minds about him. The Secret Service wouldn't want him anymore, he was sure. Perhaps the Taiwanese didn't either for the same reasons.

What a loser, he thought bitterly. Suddenly too stressed out and sick to be of any use to anyone anymore. They would probably send him home soon, but to what?

The next time Mr. Fung visited him, he brought a pot of tea with him. He poured one for himself and one for Craig.

"You probably have many questions."

"And you have the answers?"

"'Why all this?' Why the doctor, the food...the girl?"

"Yeah." Craig hoped this conversation would be short and to the point. He was already feeling sleepy again. He knew they were medicating him, but he no longer cared.

"We want to hire you, Mr. Thornton. We want your loyalty. And we are willing to pay quite handsomely."

"How handsomely?"

Fung wrote a figure down on a small slip of paper and handed it to Thornton. He looked at it and uttered a low whistle. It was certainly more than a government job would pay.

"All this for loyalty? Seems overpriced."

Fung smiled. "And we want your specialized knowledge and experience, of course. What do you say?"

Craig couldn't help feeling just a little cocky now. "Sounds pretty important. I'd say I still want to think it over."

Fung frowned. "I understand. But there isn't a lot of time, Mr. Thornton. You would be wise to decide quickly." He rose gracefully to his feet and paused in the doorway. "An offer like this does not stay open for long. There are other agents, Mr. Thornton. Good day."

Tranporting him while he was asleep seemed to be a damn pattern with them, Craig thought irritably, when he awoke one morning in his own bed in his apartment. He knew he wasn't as sound a sleeper as all that.

He was still wearing the silk pajamas they'd given him. And his apartment was as neat as a pin, with the phone back on the nighttable. His watch lay near the phone. He picked it up and studied it with surprise. Ten days! Had it been that long? Craig's stomach suddenly rumbled audibly. No one would be bringing him any trays of fancy food here, he sighed.

Craig stood on slightly shaky legs, then stumbled toward the kitchen, looking for something to eat. As he passed the living room, he noticed the answering machine flashing. He stopped, sighed, and headed over to it. It was Burke.

"Hey, Craig? You back yet? Got an assignment, Buddy. Get your ass on in here."

Work? Really? Already? Maybe they hadn't heard. Or maybe they had and didn't care. Maybe his breakdown didn't matter after all. Feeling a little more awake now, he continued into the kitchen.

There wouldn't be much. Lord knows, he hadn't been to the store in the past 10 days. So if he wanted cereal, it'd have to be without milk. He stood in the glow from the refrigerator light and stared then smiled ironically. All healthy food. Not a scrap of junk food. Fruit, vegetables, turkey, chicken...Nice send-off, he thought.

He was still considering their offer. It was tempting. But...they had offered so much! Clearly they had a specific objective in mind and they weren't going to tell him what it was until he was on board. That made sense, if it was something really important, but what could it be?

As intriguing as it all was, it still meant leaving the Secret Service at the very least. And at the very most...what? Turn against his country? No, they couldn't be asking him to do that. They couldn't expect that. They must have targeted him because he was good at his job. They'd said they wanted loyalty, didn't they? And he was good at loyal. Even for that worthless low-life, Jack Cahill. It's what they paid him for.

'Paid him for.' Was that what his loyalty was worth? At least the Taiwanese had put a higher price on it.

After he'd eaten, he took a long, hot shower. He felt almost normal again under the steamy streams of water and almost hated to get out. Finally, he towelled off and headed for the bedroom to dress. He found another surprise waiting for him in his closet. Two new, very-expensive suits. The Taiwanese were certainly a persistent people. He hesitated a moment, then selected one of his regular suits, something that wouldn't require explanation.

Craig had gone immediately to his supervisor's office. He'd been told he had an important, top secret assignment.

"Be at the White House at 2100 hours. The President is having an important visitor and he wants this individual to be able to get into the White House without anyone knowing. It's important that it be someone at your level and not some member of your staff. Once the visitor is squared away, you're to leave."

He listened to the rest of the details carefully. It sounded like a high-security assignment, particularly since they told him only as much as they felt he needed to know. He understood that. It was the nature of the job.

Craig left the office feeling elated. So they still trusted him. He wondered who the 'visitor' was. The Russians? The Cubans? Maybe a member of the Kosovo government. But then there was all this talk of Mideast peace negotiations lately...Maybe it was one of the Arab nations. Well, whoever it was, he'd continue to do the good job he always did.

That night, Craig felt every nerve-ending come alive as a sleek black car pulled up to the gate. It was always like this, he remembered with a feeling of satisfaction: the adrenalin rush. He waited for the car to enter, then signalled the driver where he should park. Craig's orders had been clear. Escort the visitor to the President as quickly and quietly as possible. He had a route all planned. He knew that building like the back of his hand.

He opened the rear door to let the visitor out.

"Thank you," giggled a voice.

Craig's face fell and, for a moment, he felt his heart drop right into his shoes at the giddy 20-year-old. If she was older than that, she sure didn't act like it.

This was his assignment, he realized with a shock. Surely there had to be some terrible mistake. He quickly shut off that part of his brain that suddenly wanted to throttle someone, and led her inside. He was doing what he'd been told to do. He kept telling himself that as he led her to Cahill, and continued to repeat it like a mantra all the way home.

Craig headed straight for the shower, stripping as he went. He felt an overwhelming need for a very hot, very long shower. He stayed there till the steam fogged in the entire bathroom.

When he came out at last, he pulled on a pair of boxers and stretched out on the bed, taking long pulls from a bottle of tequila and trying to hold back tears that burned at the corners of his eyes.

His big assignment, he thought angrily. Shuttling Cahill's "recreational sex partners" into the White House. When his fellow agents found out about it, he'd look like a fool. He would've preferred a demotion to this! This wasn't what he joined the Service for and he'd wanted no part of it. Now he was squarely in the middle.

Craig was starting to feel the effects of the tequila as the heat of it hit his gut. Asshole! What the hell did Cahill think Secret Service agents were for? Somebody should set him straight. Somebody oughta shoot the bastard.

How could Cahill treat him this way? Didn't he see how humiliating it was? No. No, he didn't, and what was worse he didn't care. The Taiwanese had been right about Cahill.

The Taiwanese. They were his friends. His friends wouldn't have done something like this to him. Whatever it was they wanted him to do, it couldn't be as embarrassing, humiliating, and degrading as this. They appreciated Craig Thornton. Hell, they'd offered him all that money and everything else because they actually valued his "knowledge and experience." His loyalty. That's what they'd said. And he was worth a lot more to them than he was to the US government. He wished now he had taken their offer. They'd left him no way for him to contact them. Maybe the offer was rescinded anyway.

Was it the tequila making him so dizzy? And so nauseous?

He knew it wasn't. The familiar twitching of an oncoming attack was happening again. The tequila bottle slipped from his violently shaking hand and landed on the bedroom floor. The room exploded in colors and distorted images, as if all his bad dreams were attacking him at once.

The pain was welling up in him--in his head, in his chest, his arms, his legs, in his testicles, everywhere. It felt like hot shards of metal were being pushed through his entire body. This one was the worst yet, and there'd be no one dashing into the room to take away the pain.

Craig struggled to control his body as he reached for the phone receiver. Speed dial. He needed to hit the speed dial button for 911. With an effort, he stilled the twitching enough to press the button firmly. Despite the roaring in his ears, he dimly heard it ringing.

"Hello, Mr. Thornton. How are you?"

Fung? God, these people were thorough. They'd even re-programmed the speed dial on his phone!

"I need...help..." Thornton rasped painfully.

"Have you re-considered our offer then? Shall we send someone over?"

"Pl-please..." he begged.

"Hang on, Mr. Thornton...Someone is en route to assist you..."

There was a slight pause, and then Fung continued.

"And welcome aboard."

THE END