Chapter 113: The Disaster
Sunday.
For the past few days, Krag's life had fallen into a simple, almost mechanical rhythm. He went from the naval base to his apartment, and from his apartment back to the base, day after day, with nothing in between.
Yet anyone with eyes could tell that he had been in an unusually good mood.
He was not a man skilled at hiding emotion. Relief practically radiated from him. Even the guards at the naval base had noticed that their commander had seemed far lighter than usual in recent days.
Inside his apartment, Krag sat with a newspaper spread open in front of him.
The black and white photograph printed across the page made him chuckle.
The Imperial Eagle in the image was riddled with bullet holes, its body twisted and shattered. To him, it was more than a wrecked automobile. It was a picture of victory. In his mind, he could already see the young German sprawled across the back seat, body torn apart by gunfire, screaming in pain, begging God for mercy.
The memory of the banquet flashed through his mind.
That smug little bastard had mocked him to his face.
Now laugh again, he thought coldly. Take that damned smile of yours to hell.
The more he imagined a bullet punching through the German's brow, the more satisfied he felt.
He reached into the ice bucket for a beer, only for his fingers to brush against melting ice and nothing else. Annoyed, he loosened his collar, then stood and decided he might as well go out. He needed alcohol. He needed dinner. Under Prohibition, the whole thing had become a nuisance. Once upon a time, he could have solved both problems in one visit to a decent tavern. Now, thanks to the moralists, a simple evening had to be broken into multiple errands.
He turned on the tap and splashed water across his face, washing away the lingering smell of alcohol.
As a naval commander, Krag's apartment was almost embarrassingly ordinary. The location was mediocre, the furnishings plain, and the place itself untidy in the way of a bachelor who had long since stopped caring what others thought. It did not mean he lacked money. He had simply spent very little on himself. Most of what he possessed went to veteran clubs across the country.
For himself, his creed had always been simple: enough was enough.
That was also why he disliked bringing guards with him. He preferred going out alone. He hated the feeling of being watched.
After drying his face, he hummed under his breath and stepped toward the door.
The moment he pulled it open, several pistols were pressed directly into his face.
For the first time in days, genuine alarm flashed through him.
Still, instinct and rank made him bark out, "You've made a mistake. Do you even know who I am? Lower your weapons at once."
The lead officer calmly unfolded a sheet of paper and held it where Krag could see it.
An arrest warrant.
Signed by the President.
"Admiral Krag," the officer said in a flat voice, "you are under arrest on suspicion of treason, conspiracy to commit assassination, dangerous political activity, disruption of military discipline, murder, and a series of related crimes."
The list was so absurdly severe that Krag almost laughed.
So they knew.
Even then, he did not panic.
In his mind, this was still manageable. Even if the death of a foreign diplomat had been uncovered, the government could not afford to make too much of it. Internationally, the stakes were too high. At worst, they would strip him of command, sacrifice him to calm the waters, and be done with it.
Nothing more.
With that thought, he slowly extended his hands, his posture still carrying the indifference of a man who believed the real balance of power remained on his side.
Then his eyes landed on the signature at the bottom of the warrant.
Not Coolidge.
Dawes.
For one terrifying second, it felt as though his heart had been clenched in an iron fist.
His extended hands jerked back instinctively.
"Why is it Dawes?" he demanded, voice rising. "Why is it the Vice President's signature? Where is the President? Where is the President?"
The lead officer grabbed his wrists before he could retreat further.
"You ought to ask yourself that, Admiral."
Similar arrests were taking place across the military.
At the research center attached to the Brooklyn Navy Yard in New York, Loy was still passing time at the card table.
There was precious little work to be done. Orders were scarce, the yard was half dead, and the place stood far from the city center. Cards had become one of the few entertainments left to men marooned there.
When Loy saw the ace dealt into his hand, he grinned wolfishly.
He licked his lips and flipped over his hidden card.
"Three aces. Hah! Looks like God finally decided to kiss my hand today."
Across the table, another officer who had been losing steadily all afternoon blew out a stream of cigarette smoke and said casually, "Loy, aren't you worried you'll get dragged into that diplomat business? I heard the bastard got shot in Washington. If someone remembers what you pulled when you tried scaring that German fool, you could be in serious trouble."
Loy snorted as he reshuffled the cards, tapping ash onto the floor.
"What, is that dead man going to crawl out of his grave and shoot me himself?"
The door was kicked open before the words had even finished echoing.
Loy's hand flew toward his sidearm on instinct. He never got the chance to draw it.
The police were already on him.
He was slammed to the ground before he could clear leather.
"Fuck! Let me go! Damn you, let me go!" he roared, thrashing like a trapped animal. "Guards! Get in here! All of you, get in here!"
He fought like a rabid one eyed wolf, tearing the arrest warrant in half the moment it was held before him.
The lead officer lost patience almost instantly. He brought the butt of his rifle down hard across Loy's face.
Even then, Loy would not submit.
One of the officers snatched the playing cards from the table, crushed them into a fist, and shoved them into his mouth to silence the curses spilling out between bloodied teeth. By the time his wrists were cuffed and his ankles bound, he had been reduced from a snarling officer to a bound, half choking wreck hauled away like a slaughtered pig.
Only then did he stop struggling.
The same thing was happening elsewhere.
The list Owen had leaked to the Morgan family had been more than enough. Everyone remotely connected to Krag's faction was being suspended, detained, or dragged in for questioning. Several of the men closest to him received the same treatment Krag did.
By the following morning, Washington was already preparing for a different kind of performance.
Dawes stood before a mirror, adjusting a slightly crooked light gray tie.
Behind him, Hoover arrived in a hurry and leaned close enough to speak in a low voice.
The moment Dawes heard the summary, the tension in his face eased.
"Transfer them all to Washington," he ordered at once. "No interrogations in ordinary police stations, and no ordinary holding cells. Move them to St. Elizabeths Hospital."
He spoke with cold precision.
"Those not directly involved will be given a choice. Admit wrongdoing and resign, or choose between a mental institution and prison."
He paused, then continued.
"As for the direct conspirators, charge them with treason. No visitors. No exceptions."
"Yes, Mr. President," Hoover said.
He turned to leave, almost unable to conceal his satisfaction. Arresting high ranking officers had given the Bureau a moment unlike any it had seen before.
Dawes, meanwhile, looked at himself in the mirror again as his secretary handed him a neatly prepared speech.
Truth was one thing.
What the public would be told was another.
After reading through the speech one final time, he took the papers, squared his shoulders, and strode toward the press hall.
When the curtains parted, a storm of light and sound crashed toward him.
Below the stage, the reporters were already in a frenzy.
"Mr. Dawes, why have neither the police nor the White House provided a clear explanation of the Third Avenue shooting? Is it true, as many speculate, that a senior German official was the target?"
"Mr. Dawes, why are you holding this press conference? Where is the President?"
"Mr. Dawes, will the attempted assassination of the German diplomat affect Dawes stock and cause disastrous consequences in the American market?"
The clamoring voices overlapped with the crackle of camera flashes until the room itself seemed to tremble.
Dawes stepped to the podium, straightened his posture, and gently tapped the microphone.
Then he raised a hand for silence.
Almost at once, the room quieted.
His voice rang out clear and steady.
"It is with great regret that I must inform you of the following. The shooting on Third Avenue was not an ordinary murder. It was a premeditated assassination."
He let the words hang for a heartbeat.
"An assassination attempt against the President of the United States."
A visible shock swept through the hall.
Dawes went on without pause.
"That is why I stand before you today. President Coolidge received immediate treatment after the attack, and every effort has been made to preserve his life. But regrettably, he remains in a coma."
.....
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